at she could induce gravity upon a
hunting party. She had never quite approved of the Peltry atmosphere.
Hard riding seemed to involve hard living, and hard swearing. She had
once heard Laurence let himself go to some rider over hounds, and had
put him on a back shelf in her mind--him and his Peltry with him. A
prude? No, she was sure she was nothing of the sort; but she liked
people to keep a hold on themselves.

A gay little dinner-party, one of hers, as she told James, finished a
month of high light. The young Pierson couple, some Warreners, a Mrs.
Treveer and Jimmy Urquhart--eight with themselves. The faithful
Francis Lingen was left out as a concession to James and love in the
dark. She noticed, with quiet amusement, how gratified James was. He
was so gratified that he did not even remark upon it. Now James's
little weakness, or one of them, let us say, was that he could not
resist a cutting phrase, when the thing did not matter. Therefore--she
reasoned--Francis Lingen, absurdly enough, did matter. That he
should, that anything of the sort should matter to James was one more
sign to her of the promise, just as the weather was one. The Spring
was at hand, and soon we should all go a-maying.

So we dined at one table, and had a blaze of daffodils from Wycross,
and everybody seemed to talk at once. Pierson told her after dinner
that Madge thought Urquhart ripping (as she had thought Wagner); and
certainly he was one to make a dinner-party go. He was ridiculous
about Laurence Corbet and his sacred foxes. "Don't _shoot_ that thing!
God of Heaven, what are you about?" "Oh, I beg your pardon, I
thought--" "Are you out of your senses? That must be torn to pieces by
dogs." He was very good at simulating savagery, but had a favourite
trick of dropping it suddenly, or turning it on himself. He caught
Mrs. Treveer, a lady of ardour not tempered by insight. She agreed
with him about hunting. "Oh, you are so right! Now can't something be
done about it? Couldn't a little paper be written--in that vein, you
know?" "Not by me," said Urquhart. "I'm a hunting man, you see." Mrs.
Treveer held up her fan, but took no offence.

Lucy, with Mabel's letter in mind, gave her guest some attention; but
for the life of her could not see that he paid her any beyond what he
had for the others or for his dinner. He joined Pierson at her side,
and made no effort to oust him. He did not flatter her by recalling
Lancelot; he seemed rather to muse