s, and talks
about books, he proceeded joyously in his corruption of the entire
household.

Naturally Mike rode his host's horses, and he borrowed his spurs,
breeches, boots, and hunting-whip. And when he began to realize what
an excellent pretext hunting is for making friends, and staying in
country houses, he bought a couple of horses, which he kept at Holly
Park free of cost. He had long since put aside his poem and his
trilogy, and now thought of nothing but shooting and riding. He could
throw his energies into anything, from writing a poem to playing
chuck-farthing.

The first meet of the hounds was at Thornby Place, and in the vain
hope of marrying her son, Mrs. Norton had invited the young girls of
the entire country-side. Lady Edith Downsdale was especially included
in her designs; but John instantly vetoed her hopes by asking Mike to
take Lady Edith in to lunch. She stood holding her habit; and feeling
the necessity of being brilliant, Mike said, pointing to the hounds
and horses--

"How strange it is that that is of no interest to the artist! I
suppose because it is only parade; whereas a bit of lane with a
wind-blown hedge is a human emotion, and that is always interesting."

Soon after, a fox was found in the plantation that rimmed the lawn,
and seeing that Lady Edith was watching him, Mike risked a fall over
some high wattles; and this was the only notice he took of her until
late in the afternoon, until all hope of hunting was ended. A fox had
been "chopped" in cover, another had been miserably coursed and
killed in a back garden. He strove to make himself agreeable while
riding with her along the hillsides, watching the huntsman trying
each patch of gorse in the coombes. She seemed to him splendid and
charming, and he wondered if he could love her--marry her, and never
grow weary of her. But when the hounds found in a large wood beneath
the hills, and streamed across the meadows, he forgot her, and making
his horse go in and out he fought for a start. A hundred and fifty
were cantering down a steep muddy lane; a horseman who had come
across the field strove to open a strong farm-gate. "It is locked,"
he roared; "jump." The lane was steep and greasy, the gate was four
feet and a half. Mike rode at it. The animal dropped his hind-legs,
Mike heard the gate rattle, and a little ejaculatory cry come from
those he left behind. It was a close shave. Turning in his saddle he
saw the immense crowd pressing a