Hullo, there! Hostler-r-r!"

My second call echoes through empty space, and rouses nobody--produces, in
short, no visible result. I am at the end of my resources--I don't know
what to say or what to do next. Here I stand in the solitary inn yard of a
strange town, with two horses to hold, and a lady to take care of. By way
of adding to my responsibilities, it so happens that one of the horses is
dead lame, and that the lady is my wife.

Who am I?--you will ask.

There is plenty of time to answer the question. Nothing happens; and
nobody appears to receive us. Let me introduce myself and my wife.

I am Percy Fairbank--English gentleman--age (let us say) forty--no
profession--moderate politics--middle height--fair complexion--easy
character--plenty of money.

My wife is a French lady. She was Mademoiselle Clotilde Delorge--when I
was first presented to her at her father's house in France. I fell in love
with her--I really don't know why. It might have been because I was
perfectly idle, and had nothing else to do at the time. Or it might have
been because all my friends said she was the very last woman whom I ought
to think of marrying. On the surface, I must own, there is nothing in
common between Mrs. Fairbank and me. She is tall; she is dark; she is
nervous, excitable, romantic; in all her opinions she proceeds to
extremes. What could such a woman see in me? what could I see in her? I
know no more than you do. In some mysterious manner we exactly suit each
other. We have been man and wife for ten years, and our only regret is,
that we have no children. I don't know what you may think; I call
that--upon the whole--a happy marriage.

So much for ourselves. The next question is--what has brought us into the
inn yard? and why am I obliged to turn groom, and hold the horses?

We live for the most part in France--at the country house in which my wife
and I first met. Occasionally, by way of variety, we pay visits to my
friends in England. We are paying one of those visits now. Our host is an
old college friend of mine, possessed of a fine estate in Somersetshire;
and we have arrived at his house--called Farleigh Hall--toward the close
of the hunting season.

On the day of which I am now writing--destined to be a memorable day in
our calendar--the hounds meet at Farleigh Hall. Mrs. Fairbank and I are
mounted on two of the best horses in my friend's stables. We are quite
unworthy of that distinction; for we know nothin