"Mr. Dodd had better talk to me about my hat!" she said, growing purple in the face. "I call all these modern sporting-costumes indecent, and when I was a girl I should have been whipped for coming out shooting in the things you have got on, Miss Springle!" "Really! you don't say so!" said Miss Springle, innocently, "Why, I never heard they shot birds in Liverpool, Mrs. Dodd." I interfered. The expression of my elder guest's face was becoming apoplectic. "Let us get into the brake," I said. Lady Wakely sat next me. "Very unpleasant person, Mrs. Dodd," she whispered, wheezily, as we drove off, "She is here every year. My dear, you are good-natured to put up with her." Lunch was laid out in the barn of one of the farm-houses. Augustus had given orders that it should be of the most sumptuous description, and the chef had done marvels. The table looked like a wedding-breakfast when we got there, with flowers and printed menus. The sportsmen were not long in making their appearance. It was a rather warm day, and Mr. McCormack and Mr. Dodd, who were not accustomed to much exercise, I suppose, without ceremony mopped their heads. Antony, who was walking behind, with Sir Samuel Wakely, appeared such an astonishingly cool contrast to them. His coat did not look new, but as if it had seen service. Only everything fitted and hung right, and he walks with an ease and grace that would have pleased grandmamma. Augustus had a thunderous expression on his face. So had Wilks, the head keeper. Later, I gathered there had been a great quantity of birds, but the commercial friends had not been very successful in their destruction. In fact, Mr. Dodd had only secured two brace, besides one of the beaters in the shoulder, and a dog. Antony sat by me. "Dangerous work, shooting," he said, smiling, as he looked at the menu. "What is your average list of killed in a pheasant battue?" "What--what kind of killed?" I asked, laughing. "Guests or beaters or dogs--anything but the birds." "Cutlets ha la ravigotte or 'ommard ha lamerican, Sir Antony?" the voice of the first footman sounded in our ears. "Oh--er--get me a little Irish stew or some cold beef," said Antony, plaintively, still with the menu in his hand. "We've no--Irish stew--except what is prepared for the beaters, Sir Antony," said James, apologetically. He had come from a ducal house and knew the world. "Shall I get you some of that, Sir Antony?" "No, don't mind." Then, turning to me, "What are you eating, Comtesse?" he asked. "I will have some of that." "It is truffled partridge in aspic," I said, disagreeably. "You can pick out the truffles if you are afraid of them." "Truffled partridge, then," he said to James, resignedly, and when it came he deliberately ate the truffles first. "Hock, claret, Burgundy, or champagne, Sir Antony?" demanded the butler. "Oh--er--I will have the whole four!" His face had the most comical expression of chastened resignation as he glanced at me.