on the polished floor.

Fleetwood saluted amiably with his riding-crop; including Plank, whom he
did not know, in a more formal salute.

"Will you join us?" asked Mortimer, taking the cheque which Plank
offered and carelessly pocketing it without even a nod of thanks. "You
know Beverly Plank, of course? What! I thought everybody knew Beverly
Plank."

Mr. Fleetwood and Mr. Plank shook hands and resumed their seats.

"Ripping weather!" observed Fleetwood, replacing his hat and rebuttoning
the glove which he had removed to shake hands with Plank. "Lot of jolly
people out this morning. I say, Mortimer, do you want that roan hunter
of mine you looked over? I mean King Dermid, because Marion Page wants
him, if you don't. She was out this morning, and she spoke of it again."

Mortimer, lifting a replenished glass, shook his head, and drank
thirstily in silence.

"Saw you at Westbury, I think," said Fleetwood politely to Plank, as the
two lifted their glasses to one another.

"I hunted there for a day or two," replied Plank, modestly. "If it's
that big Irish thoroughbred you were riding that you want to sell I'd
like a look in, if Miss Page doesn't fancy him."

Fleetwood laughed, and glanced amusedly at Plank over his glass. "It
isn't that horse, Mr. Plank. That's Drumceit, Stephen Siward's famous
horse." He interrupted himself to exchange greetings with several men
who came into the room rather noisily, their spurs resounding across the
oaken floor. One of them, Tom O'Hara, joined them, slamming his crop on
the desk beside Plank and spreading himself over an arm-chair, from the
seat of which he forcibly removed Mortimer's feet without excuse.

"Drink? Of course I want a drink!" he replied irritably to
Fleetwood--"one, three, ten, several! Billy, whose weasel-bellied pinto
was that you were kicking your heels into in the park? Some of the
squadron men asked me--the major. Oh, beg pardon! Didn't know you were
trying to stick Mortimer with him. He might do for the troop ambulance,
inside! ... What? Oh, yes; met Mr. Blank--I mean Mr. Plank--at Shotover,
I think. How d'ye do? Had the pleasure of potting your tame pheasants.
Rotten sport, you know. What do you do it for, Mr. Blank?"

"What did you come for, if it's rotten sport?" asked Plank so simply
that it took O'Hara a moment to realise he had been snubbed.

"I didn't mean to be offensive," he drawled.

"I suppose you can't help it," said Plank very gently; "some p