Alan had his favorite rooms, the smallest in the house; his study was a model of comfort, and there was another room opening from it which contained all his sporting paraphernalia. There were guns of various makes, over a dozen; Harry Morby had tested some of them and expressed the opinion that a bad shot might kill birds with such weapons. A case of fishing-rods occupied one side of the room. Half a dozen saddles, some racing jackets, bridles, dog collars, boxing gloves, foils, whips, boots, spurs, miscellaneous tools handy for sporting purposes. Pictures of racing and hunting scenes hung on the walls; there was a life-like painting of Fred Archer, the beautiful eyes being perfect, also another of Tom Cannon, Mornington Cannon, George Fordham, portraits of Maher, Frank Wotton and several well-known gentleman riders who were friends of Alan's. This was the room where guests were wont to congregate and talk over the day's shooting, or discuss the merits of horses and jockeys. Alan had breakfast, and came into this room to read the papers before going for his customary ride; he was always ready and fit to accept a mount in a welter race, or ride over the sticks in the hurdle and chasing season. He looked carelessly at half a dozen papers but his attention wandered, he could not concentrate his thoughts on anything he saw, he read bits here and there but they were not fixed in his mind. He tossed the papers in a heap on the table, filled his pipe and smoked dreamily. There were a dozen servants in the house but he was the only occupant of the owner's quarters. He did not feel exactly lonely, but he liked somebody to talk with, and having been a few days by himself he wished for company. Evelyn Berkeley was at The Forest and he thought he would ride over and see her; she was always good company and he liked her, but she was dangerously charming and he acknowledged he felt the influence when in her presence. Why not marry her? He was sure she would accept him if he proposed, and there was no woman more fitted to be the mistress of Trent Park. More than once he had been on the verge of putting the question to her but something prevented him and he was rather glad he had escaped. Over and over again he had asked himself if he loved her and found no satisfactory answer. He knew many of his male friends accepted it as a foregone conclusion he would marry Evelyn Berkeley, and he smiled as he thought how they discussed him and his matrimonial prospects. It pleased him to think she preferred his society to that of other men, it flattered him when he recalled she might have been a countess had she wished. He asked her why she did not accept the titled suitor and she replied that titles had no attraction for her, that her mind was made up; there was somebody she liked very much, he might ask her to be his wife some day and she would wait.