When he came downstairs the General was helping himself to chicken and tongue at the sideboard, Mr Boxall was spreading his serviette across his knees, and Violet Lestrange, in the absence of Lady Seagrave and Lady Molyneux, both late risers, was presiding at the teapot behind the huge copper urn, still to be found a relic of the past here and there in Irish country houses. “Morning!” said Dicky. He could not see Violet’s boots or skirt, for they were under the table, but she was in tweed, and had an open-airy look. Patsy, as Mr Fanshawe took his seat, was placing a toast-rack on the other side of the table, and as Mr Fanshawe’s eye caught Patsy’s eye, Patsy winked. It was a wonderful wink, for there was not a trace of familiarity or disrespect in it. The face was perfectly immovable, the left eye closed for the hundredth part of a second, that was all; but what a lot of meaning that insignificant muscular movement conveyed! It told that the message had been delivered, but it said a lot more. It conveyed the impression that all was well, that Patsy in some miraculous way had discovered that Miss Lestrange had fallen in with Dicky’s suggestion, and that he, Patsy, was on the watch ready to assist matters to the uttermost, and to exercise secrecy and dispatch. “Who’s coming to the meet?” asked Violet, as she poured out Mr Fanshawe’s tea. “What meet?” asked Dicky. “The beagles,” she replied. “Patsy, what time do the beagles meet to-day?” “Tin o’clock, miss, at the park gates.” “I’m not,” replied Dicky. “Too stiff; besides, running after beagles is not in my line.” “Too stiff!” growled the General, who had taken his seat opposite Dicky—“too lazy, you mean—Pass me the mustard—The young men of to-day aren’t the young men of my time. Why, a twenty-mile run over the country when I was your age was only exercise—gentle exercise, sir.” “I’ll come,” said Mr Boxall, “if I shall not be in the way. There is no necessity to follow the hounds. It is a long while since I have indulged in any description of sport; in fact, I have not seen a fox for years.” Patsy, who was handing a dish of kippered herrings to Mr Fanshawe, very nearly exploded. “I believe beagles generally hunt hares,” said Mr Fanshawe. “But, as you all seem so active, I’ll join you. It’s after nine now, Patsy; you’d better be off and tell them to hold on and not start till we come.” It was ten minutes past ten when the party, Violet and General Grampound walking first, Mr Fanshawe and Mr Boxall following, neared the park gates. “Listen!” said Violet, as they drew near the end of the drive. “Why, God bless my soul,” said the General, “it sounds like a faction fight or a fair!” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XX THE MEET OF THE BEAGLES