er."

Lunch was laid out in the barn of one of the farm-houses. Augustus had
given orders that it should be of the most sumptuous description, and
the chef had done marvels.

The table looked like a wedding-breakfast when we got there, with
flowers and printed menus.

The sportsmen were not long in making their appearance. It was
a rather warm day, and Mr. McCormack and Mr. Dodd, who were not
accustomed to much exercise, I suppose, without ceremony mopped
their heads.

Antony, who was walking behind, with Sir Samuel Wakely, appeared such
an astonishingly cool contrast to them. His coat did not look new, but
as if it had seen service. Only everything fitted and hung right, and
he walks with an ease and grace that would have pleased grandmamma.

Augustus had a thunderous expression on his face. So had Wilks, the
head keeper. Later, I gathered there had been a great quantity of
birds, but the commercial friends had not been very successful in
their destruction. In fact, Mr. Dodd had only secured two brace,
besides one of the beaters in the shoulder, and a dog.

Antony sat by me.

"Dangerous work, shooting," he said, smiling, as he looked at the
menu. "What is your average list of killed in a pheasant battue?"

"What--what kind of killed?" I asked, laughing.

"Guests or beaters or dogs--anything but the birds."

"Cutlets ha la ravigotte or 'ommard ha lamerican, Sir Antony?" the
voice of the first footman sounded in our ears.

"Oh--er--get me a little Irish stew or some cold beef," said Antony,
plaintively, still with the menu in his hand.

"We've no--Irish stew--except what is prepared for the beaters, Sir
Antony," said James, apologetically. He had come from a ducal house
and knew the world. "Shall I get you some of that, Sir Antony?"

"No, don't mind." Then, turning to me, "What are you eating,
Comtesse?" he asked. "I will have some of that."

"It is truffled partridge in aspic," I said, disagreeably. "You can
pick out the truffles if you are afraid of them."

"Truffled partridge, then," he said to James, resignedly, and when
it came he deliberately ate the truffles first.

"Hock, claret, Burgundy, or champagne, Sir Antony?" demanded the
butler.

"Oh--er--I will have the whole four!"

His face had the most comical expression of chastened resignation as
he glanced at me.

Griggson poured out bumpers in the four glasses.

"I shall now shoot like your friend from Liverpool," said Antony, "and
if I