ad cut through a
wild piece of open country where, with the sea and the tall cliffs
behind them, vista after vista of wooded hills and graciously sloping
valleys unfolded in front of them.

"Yes, you get some fine scenery inland," replied Trenby. "And the
roads are good for motoring. I suppose you don't ride?" he added.

"Why should you suppose that?"

"Well"--a trifle awkwardly--"one doesn't expect a Londoner to know much
about country pursuits."

Nan smiled.

"Are you imagining I've spent all my life in a Seven Dials slum?" she
asked serenely.

"No, no, of course not. But--"

"But country people take a very limited view of a Londoner. We _do_
sometimes get out of town, you know--and some of us can ride and play
games quite nicely! As a matter of fact I hunted when I was about six."

Roger's face lightened, eagerly.

"Oh, then I hope you're staying at Mallow till the hunting season
starts? I've a lovely mare I could lend you if you'd let me."

Nan shook her head and made a hasty gesture of dissent.

"Oh, no, no. Quite honestly, I've not ridden for years--and even if I
took up riding once more I should never hunt again. I think"--she
shrank a little--"it's too cruel."

Trenby regarded her with ingenuous amazement.

"Cruel!" he exclaimed. "Why, it's sport!"

"Magic word!" Nan's lips curled a little. "You say it's 'sport' as
though that made it all right."

"So it does," answered Trenby contentedly.

"It may--for the sportsman. But as far as the fox is concerned, it's
sheer cruelty."

Trenby drove on without speaking for a short time. Then he said slowly:

"Well, in a way I suppose you're right. But, all the same, it's the
sporting instinct--the cultivated sporting instinct--which has made the
Englishman what he is. It's that which won the war, you know."

"It's a big price to pay. Couldn't you"--a sudden charming smile
curving her lips--"couldn't you do it--I mean cultivate the sporting
instinct--by polo and things like that?"

"It's not the same." Trenby shook his head. "You don't understand.
It's the desire to find your quarry, to go through anything rather than
to let him beat you--no matter how done or tired you feel."

"It may be very good for you," allowed Nan. "But it's very bad luck on
the fox. I wouldn't mind so much if he had fair play. But even if he
succeeds in getting away from you--beating _you_, in fact--and runs to
earth, you proceed to dig him out. I call