She looked him critically up and down, and her eyes, travelling upwards again, found his studying her in return. It might have been an embarrassing discovery, but before it had time to become so the man who was different from other men had strolled across the hall, taken possession of the seat by her side, and was inquiring if she felt tired after her journey, in a tone which seemed to imply that he took not the faintest possible interest in her reply. "A little tired," said Hope prosaically, conscious that if Madge had been in her place she would have been ready with a vivacious retort which would have broken the ice of formality. She felt quite unable to frame such a retort. Instead she said simply, "I am not particularly fond of railway travelling, and I dislike changes. I never feel that I can settle down comfortably when there is a change before me. Even if it is two hours ahead, I cannot determine to undo a rug and make myself comfortable." "No?" said Mr Merrilies; and once again his voice sounded so flat and uninterested that she wished she had not been so explicit in setting forth her feelings. She allowed herself to be helped to a second cup of tea, then relapsed into silence, waiting patiently for a fresh lead. The other men were discussing the day's sport, and presently her companion must needs report on "the bag" in his turn. "We have been over the Tansy Woods to-day, seven of us, and the bag was two hundred and fifteen pheasants, a brace of partridges, thirty hares, and ninety-five rabbits. Pretty fair, isn't it?" "I don't know," said Hope simply. "I know nothing about shooting. Neither my father nor brother was a sportsman, so I cannot judge what is bad or good. It seems a tremendous number." She looked so pretty and so winsome as she glanced at him with her childlike eyes that his face relaxed from its set lines, and he smiled in involuntary friendliness. "A few years ago it would have been a record day, a day to put in the papers, but now it is nothing at all extraordinary. In shooting, as in everything else, the standard has risen, and we are less easily satisfied. It is an age of great expectations; don't you think so?" "I don't know," said Hope again; but her brow clouded, and presently she asked in an anxious little voice, "Do you really think the standard has risen in everything! Would it be more difficult to do well in--er--in any profession, for instance, than it was a dozen years ago! Would you have to be much cleverer?" "Oh dear, yes! certainly you would. It is a different thing altogether. A dozen years ago people were easily pleased, and ready to make allowances, but nothing short of perfection satisfies us nowadays. The days of the amateur are past; even professionals need constant study to maintain their high standard."