as he did--and he was no mean proficient--and was two or three years older than he besides. But it was an unsatisfactory existence to him. He felt when he went from Madame Koller’s presence into Olivia’s like going from a ball room out into the clear moonlit night. To be on his guard always against a woman, to try and make the best of an anomalous condition, was offensive to his naturally straightforward mind. It relieved him to be with Olivia, even though occasionally she treated him cavalierly. This last he positively relished as a luxury. Ahlberg he hated. Yet they were scrupulously polite to each other, and Ahlberg occasionally dined with him at Malvern. One day he met Ahlberg in the road near the village. Ahlberg had a gun and a full game-bag slung over his shoulder. “You have had good luck,” said Pembroke. “Very,” answered Ahlberg, with his peculiar smile. “I saw nothing to shoot, but I met two blacks, and for a trifle I bought all this. I am not a sportsman like you. I go for a walk--I take my gun. I want a few birds for an entrée. It matters very little where I get them.” “What we call a pot hunter,” remarked Pembroke, laughing at what he considered great simplicity on Ahlberg’s part. For his own part, his instincts of sport made him consider Ahlberg’s method of securing an entrée as but little better than sheep stealing. Ahlberg did not quite take in what manner of sport pot hunting was, nor the contumely visited upon a pot hunter, and so was not offended. “Will you not come to The Beeches to-morrow evening and dine with us on these birds?” he asked. “This is _my_ party, not Elise’s, who is ill with a distressing cold. I have asked the Reverend Cole too, and Hibbs and some others, and we will have a ‘jollitime’ as you Americans and English say.” Pembroke agreed, he scarcely knew why, particularly as he seldom dined at The Beeches, and never before at Ahlberg’s invitation. Next evening therefore with Mr. Cole and Mr. Hibbs and young Peyton and two or three others Pembroke found himself in the great, gloomy dining room at The Beeches. Neither Madame Koller nor Madame Schmidt were present. The cold was a real cold. Madame Koller was on the sofa in her sitting room, and if she felt strong enough, sent word to the guests she would see them in the drawing-room later on. The round table though, in the middle of the room, looked cheerful enough, and on the sideboard was an array of long-necked bottles such as Pembroke had never seen for so small a party.