"Oh—haw—nothing, Sir Nigel," said he, and retiring into an oriel, he drew forth a memorandum book, and proceeded to consider the weights for a forthcoming race; and so absorbed was he that Cora laughed aloud on hearing him mutter in this fashion, pulling his long moustaches the while— "Mail-train, five years, eight stone two pounds. Swish-tail, three years, six stone four pounds. Queen Victorina, aged, rather, six stone four pounds," and so on. As we rose from the breakfast-table, and broke into groups, he dropped a letter in a female handwriting. I picked it up, and followed him. It was open, and the signature, "_Agnes Auriol_," caught my eye. By that name I knew the writer, and could have crushed Berkeley’s chances, perhaps, for ever; but as no such use could be honourably made of it, I touched him on the shoulder, simply saying— "Pardon me, you have dropped this." He changed colour painfully as he received the letter, walked to the fire, cast it in, and carefully waited until it was consumed. I was not without hopes of luring Lady Louisa into the library, the conservatory, or some quiet nook, as a ride or a ramble out of doors was not to be thought of; but my uncle destroyed my chances, by suddenly announcing, with one of his loud and merry laughs, that the glass was rising, the day would yet be fine, and that gentlemen must kill their next day’s dinner or go without. He was going to beat the thickets for a few birds, and he had guns for all the party. The old general grumbled an unmistakable dissent, and Berkeley pocketed his betting-book, drawling out, as he looked at the snowy landscape and left the room— "A horrid bore!" "Come, general," said my hearty old uncle, who had not heard Berkeley’s uncivil response, "don’t think yet of substituting flannel bags for top-boots; Ascension turtle and pink champagne for patience and water gruel; hot fomentations for hot whisky-toddy! Come! put on your shot-belt; the gout is a long way off yet." "Gad! I am not so sure of that, Sir Nigel; and then there is this cursed jungle-fever, which I got when up the country with the 3rd Bengal, and I have a horror of toast and water, even when flavoured with pale dry sherry." "Where is Mr. Berkeley loitering; what is he about?" "Making up his mind, papa, or what he considers to be such," said Cora. "Fie, Cora," said the old baronet, "you should never quiz a guest." Berkeley, re-entering, urged that he had letters to write, and so must remain behind; so said Mr. Spittal, the M.P. Thus the shooting party was reduced to Sir Nigel, the keeper, and myself.