He could remember, as he spoke, the mountain stream by which, when riding home, he had made up his mind to go, while the steady patter of the hounds’ paws sounded behind him on the wet road, and the honest hound faces that he was beginning to hate looked up at him from time to time. Slaney and he found the drawing-room empty of all but a smell of cigarettes, and pursuing a fresh trail of it to the smoking-room, found Lady Susan sitting with a cigarette in her shapely mouth, and in front of her a mandoline, from which she was plucking a shrill and agueish chatter of melody, representing a waltz. A grey poodle lay at her feet, with his moustached muzzle buried in the fur rug, and his eyes rolling purgatorially upward in the forbidden longing to lift up his voice and howl an accompaniment to the tune. Major Bunbury was reading a newspaper with that air of serving his country that belongs to men when they read papers. No woman can hope to read the _Times_ as though it were a profession; it is a masculine gift, akin to that of dining. “Oh, it’s only Slaney!” exclaimed Lady Susan. “We bolted in here when we saw the white horse. We thought it was the parson. Well, you’re very good to come, dear, and it’s very nice to have you.” She kissed Slaney briskly on both cheeks, conveying a mingled flavour of smart clothes, tobacco, and careless friendliness. “Hughie could never have gone away and left Bunny and me here together for a week, you know! It would have been hideously improper, wouldn’t it? Uncle Charles would have had three fits on the spot, wouldn’t he?” She stationed herself on the arm of Major Bunbury’s chair, and put her elbow on his shoulder. Slaney realized that of the whole party she alone felt the proceeding to be unusual, yet Major Bunbury did not seem to appreciate it. “Well, I’m off, anyhow,” said Hugh. “Make them look after you, Slaney. If Glasgow wants to know anything more about the next meet or stopping the earths, or anything, Bunbury, Dan can tell him.” In spite of himself, his voice stiffened till all the good-fellowship was gone from it. “Well, good-bye, everybody.” He wondered whether his wife would come out to see him off, but he could not ask her. She got up and came to the door, and stood leaning against it as he passed out. She was not quite sufficiently feminine to discern that, in spite of his unprepossessing manner, and bald brevity of farewell, he hated going away from her, and he went down the passage unaccompanied except by his dog. “I think Hughie’s got influenza, or liver, or something,” remarked Lady Susan, returning to the mandoline, “he’s awfully grumpy.” Bunbury got up without answering, and followed his host to the hall door. CHAPTER VII