The day after the winter picnic Sir Charles Mitford sat in that little snuggery next his dressing-room, which had been so deftly fitted up for him by Captain Bligh, in the enjoyment of a quiet after-breakfast pipe. Breakfast was on the table at Redmoor from nine to twelve. Each guest chose his own time for putting in an appearance; rang for his or her special teapot, special relay of devilled kidney, ham, kipper, eggs, or bloater; found his or her letters placed in close proximity to his or her plate; breakfasted, and then went away to do exactly as he or she liked until luncheon, which was the real gathering hour of the day. On the morning in question everybody had been late, except Major Winton, who, deeply disgusted with the proceedings of the previous day, had routed up one of the under-keepers at daybreak, and trudged away to his usual shooting-ground. Sir Charles had turned out at ten, but had found no one in the breakfast-room save Captain Bligh, deep in the perusal of the newly-arrived copy of _Bell's Life_. So Sir Charles read his letters, which were of a prosaic business-like character, and ate his breakfast, which he rather enjoyed, and then went up to his room, taking the _Times_ with him. Not, however, for the purpose of reading it--Charley seldom resorted to that means of passing time; he never could understand what fellows saw to read in the papers; for beyond the police intelligence and the sporting-news and the advertisements of horses to be sold, all that enormous sheet of news, gathered with such care and expense, was utterly blank to him. To-day he did not even want to read his usual portion of the paper; he took it up with him half-unconsciously; he wanted to smoke and to think--to smoke a little and to think a great deal.