The animal, with the rank ingratitude of its kind, wriggled frantically out of my grasp and fawned about its master in a paroxysm of delight. I was so completely forgotten that I was able to observe him at my ease. His face and voice had changed like magic. Then I saw that his features, though irregular, were powerful and not ill-shaped, and that his ugly flannel shirt was at any rate clean. He continued to ignore my presence, and, taking the dog up into his arms, tenderly examined the fracture. “Poor little lady!” he murmured. “Poor little Lawless. One of those damned traps of Harrison’s, I suppose. I shall kill that fellow some day!” he added, savagely, under his breath. I rose to my feet and shook out my skirts. There are limits to one’s tolerance. “You are perfectly welcome,” I remarked, quietly. There was no doubt as to his having forgotten my presence. He looked up with darkened face. Lady Naselton was perfectly right. He was a very ugly man. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I had quite forgotten that you were here. In fact, I thought that you had gone away. Thank you for attending to the dog. That will do very nicely until I get it home,” he added, touching the bandage. “Until you get it home!” I repeated. “Thank you! Do you think that you can bandage better than that?” I looked down with some scorn at his large, clumsy hands. After all, were they so very clumsy, though? They were large and brown, but they were not without a certain shapeliness. They looked strong, too. He bore the glance with perfect equanimity, and, taking the two ends of the line into his hands, commenced to draw them tighter. “Well, you see, I shall set the bone properly when I get back,” he said. “This is fairly done, though, for an amateur. Thank you--and good morning.” He was turning brusquely away with the dog under his arm, but I stopped him. “Who is Harrison?” I asked, “and why does he set traps?” He frowned, evidently annoyed at having to stay and answer questions. “Harrison is a small tenant farmer who objects to my crossing his land.” “Objects to you crossing his land?” I repeated, vaguely. “Yes, yes. I take these dogs after hares, you know--beagling, we call it. Sometimes I am forced to cross his farm if a hare is running, although I never go there for one. He objects, and so he sets traps.” “Is he your tenant?” I asked. “Yes.” “Why don’t you get rid of him, then? I wouldn’t have a man who would set traps on my land.” He frowned, and his tone was distinctly impatient. He was evidently weary of the discussion. “I cannot. He has a long lease. Good morning.” “Good morning, Mr. Deville.” He looked over his shoulder. “You know my name!” “Certainly. Don’t you know mine?” “No.” “Let me introduce myself, then. I am Miss Ffolliot--the pale-faced chit, you know!” I added, maliciously. “My father is the new vicar.”