“Don’t make me sick,” said Lady Susan, beginning heartily on biscuits and cheese. “If I’d known that in time I wouldn’t have married you. A little man with a beard’s like a cob with a long tail. Couldn’t do with you if you’d a long tail, Hughie.” “I’m goin’ to grow another when we get down to French’s Court,” retorted Hughie. “I shan’t have anything else to do there. What on earth do you do with yourself at Letter Kyle, Slaney?” “Do you grow a beard, Slaney?” shouted Lady Susan, with her mouth full of biscuit. “If _I’m_ bored over there I shall just dye my hair again. How do you like it now, Bunny? I got it done in Paris on our way through. I think it might be a bit redder.” “Why, it’s as red as a fox now,” said Major Bunbury, regarding it critically. “Talking of foxes,” put in Slaney, endeavouring to be genial, “they all expect Hugh to start the hounds again when he comes over. That will give you something to do, Hugh.” “Tally ho!” uttered Major Bunbury, with a subdued whoop. “That’s a rippin’ good notion. I’ll come over and whip for you, Hughie.” “No, you won’t!” cried Lady Susan. “I’ll whip for him myself; but I don’t believe he knows anything about it--does he, Bunny?” “Oh dear, no!” replied Major Bunbury, with elephantine sarcasm; “he’s a perfect owl. Can’t think why we made him carry the horn till he left the regiment--and the funny thing was that he seemed quite up to the job.” Captain French took no notice of the compliment. “I can’t imagine who the people are who want me to get up a pack there,” he said, without much enthusiasm; “last time I was over there seemed to be no one in the place but the parson and the two old Miss Macarthys. They’d make a pretty sort of a hunt.” “Oh, there are a lot of farmers,” replied Slaney, “and there’s the police officer, and there’s Mr. Glasgow, the contractor of the new railway.” To her own surprise and annoyance she blushed as she spoke, and Major Bunbury, glancing incidentally at her, thought her almost handsome. “Glasgow,” repeated Hugh; “there was a chap called Glasgow at Eton with me. What sort of age is this man?” “Oh, he’s young--at least, not very young--I mean he’s not exactly old; but he’s older than you are, Hugh,” replied Slaney, with incoherence probably due to the blush; “his name is Wilfrid,” she added. “I think he did say something about having been at school with you.” “That’s the man. Clever sort of chap; fancies himself a bit. I remember one of my pals was a fag of his, and said he was awfully particular about his toast. He wants hounds, does he? Why don’t he get them up for himself?” “He’s too busy; besides, he said you were the man to do it, Hugh. He said he had always heard you were a great rider, and knew all about your having won the Gold Cup at Punchestown.” She was conscious of pleasure in the expounding of Mr. Glasgow. Lady Susan, on the contrary, began to find it a bore.