f the third, six and a half brace in
all. And the Colonel, yes, he hev seven brace, one bird to the good."

"There, Mr. Cossey," said Ida, smiling sweetly, "I have won my gloves.
Mind you don't forget to pay them."

"Oh, I will not forget, Miss de la Molle," said he, smiling also, but
not too prettily. "I suppose," he said, addressing the Colonel, "that
the last covey twisted up and you browned them."

"No," he answered quietly, "all four were clear shots."

Mr. Cossey smiled again, as he turned away to hide his vexation, an
incredulous smile, which somehow sent Harold Quaritch's blood leaping
through his veins more quickly than was good for him. Edward Cossey
would rather have lost a thousand pounds than that his adversary
should have got that extra bird, for not only was he a jealous shot,
but he knew perfectly well that Ida was anxious that he should lose,
and desired above all things to see him humiliated. And then he, the
smartest shot within ten miles round, to be beaten by a middle-aged
soldier shooting with a strange gun, and totally unaccustomed to
driven birds! Why, the story would be told over the county; George
would see to that. His anger was so great when he thought of it, that
afraid of making himself ridiculous, he set off with his bearer
towards the Castle without another word, leaving the others to follow.

Ida looked after him and smiled. "He is so conceited," she said; "he
cannot bear to be beaten at anything."

"I think that you are rather hard on him," said the Colonel, for the
joke had an unpleasant side which jarred upon his taste.

"At any rate," she answered, with a little stamp, "it is not for you
to say so. If you disliked him as much as I do you would be hard on
him, too. Besides, I daresay that his turn is coming."

The Colonel winced, as well he might, but looking at her handsome
face, set just now like steel at the thought of what the future might
bring forth, he reflected that if Edward Cossey's turn did come he was
by no means sure that the ultimate triumph would rest with him. Ida de
la Molle, to whatever extent her sense of honour and money
indebtedness might carry her, was no butterfly to be broken on a
wheel, but a woman whose dislike and anger, or worse still, whose
cold, unvarying disdain, was a thing from which the boldest hearted
man might shrink aghast.

Nothing more was said on the subject, and they began to talk, though
somewhat constrainedly, about indifferent matt