of Mabel
Thursby, with its hogged mane of little wire curls in the nape of the
neck. He felt he still looked hot and dusty, though he had imagined he
was quite cool the moment before. To his own astonishment, he actually
found his self-possession leaving him; and though its desertion proved
only momentary, _in_ that moment he found himself walking away with the
Thursbys in the direction of the Hall. He was provoked, angry with
himself, with the Thursbys, and, most of all, with Mr. Alwynn, who had
come up a second later, and asked him to luncheon, as a matter of
course, also Dare, who accepted with evident gratitude. Charles felt
that he had not gone steeple-chasing over the country only to talk to
Mrs. Thursby, and to see Ruth stroll away over the fields with Dare
towards the rectory.

However, he made himself extremely agreeable, which was with him more a
matter of habit than those who occasionally profited by it would have
cared to know. He asked young Thursby his opinion on E.C. cartridges; he
condoled with Mrs. Thursby on the loss of her last butler, and recounted
some alarming anecdotes of his own French cook. He admired a pallid
water-color drawing of Venice, in an enormous frame on an enormous
easel, which he rightly supposed to be the manual labor of Mabel
Thursby.

When he rose to take his leave, young Thursby, intensely flattered by
having been asked for that opinion on cartridges by so renowned a shot
as Charles, offered to walk part of the way back with him.

"I am afraid I am not going home yet," said Charles, lightly. "Duty
points in the opposite direction, I have to call at the rectory. I want
Mr. Alwynn's opinion on a point of clerical etiquette, which is setting
my young spiritual shepherd at Stoke Moreton against his principal
sheep, namely, myself."

And Charles took his departure, leaving golden opinions behind him, and
a determination to invite him once more to shoot, in spite of his many
courteous refusals of the last few years.

Mrs. Alwynn always took a nap after luncheon in her smart Sunday gown,
among the mustard-colored cushions of her high-art sofa. Mr. Alwynn,
also, was apt at the same time to sink into a subdued, almost apologetic
doze, in the old arm-chair which alone had resisted the march of
discomfort, and so-called "taste," which had invaded the rest of the
little drawing-room of Slumberleigh Rectory. Ruth was sitting with her
dark head leaned against the open window-frame. Dare