is riding and the keen air; and he ate well.
First he stayed his appetite a little with a hunch of cheat-bread, and a
glass of pomage, while the servant was bringing him his entry of eggs
cooked with parsley. Then he ate this; and next came half a wild-duck
cooked with sage and sweet potatoes; and last of all a florentine which
he ate with a cup of Canarian. He ate heartily and quickly, while the
two waited for him and nibbled at marchpane. Then, when the doors were
flung open and the troop of servants came in to their supper, Mr. Audrey
blessed himself, and for them, too; and they went out by a door behind
into the wainscoted parlour, where the new stove from London stood, and
where the conserves and muscadel awaited them. For this, or like it, had
been the procedure in Matstead hall ever since Robin could remember,
when first he had come from the women to eat his food with the men.

"And how were all at Booth's Edge?" asked Mr. Audrey, when all had
pulled off their boots in country fashion, and were sitting each with
his glass beside him. (Through the door behind came the clamour of the
farm-men and the keepers of the chase and the servants, over their
food.)

"I saw Marjorie only, sir," said the boy. "Mr. Manners was in Derby, and
Mrs. Manners had a megrim."

"Mrs. Manners is ageing swifter than her husband," observed Anthony.

There seemed a constraint upon the company this evening. Robin spoke of
his ride, of things which he had seen upon it, of a wood that should be
thinned next year; and Anthony made a quip or two such as he was
accustomed to make; but the master sat silent for the most part,
speaking to the lads once or twice for civility's sake, but no more. And
presently silences began to fall, that were very unusual things in Mr.
Anthony's company, for he had a quick and a gay wit, and talked enough
for five. Robin knew very well what was the matter; it was what lay upon
his own heart as heavy as lead; but he was sorry that the signs of it
should be so evident, and wondered what he should say to his friend
Anthony when the time came for telling; since Anthony was as ardent for
the old Faith as any in the land. It was a bitter time, this, for the
old families that served God as their fathers had, and desired to serve
their prince too; for, now and again, the rumour would go abroad that
another house had fallen, and another name gone from the old roll. And
what would Anthony Babington say, thought the lad, w