he question that Rupert
asked himself ruefully. There was young Malcolm Athling, as
nice-looking, decent, level-headed a fellow as any one could wish to
meet, obviously her very devoted admirer, and yet she must throw herself
away on this pale-eyed, weak-mouthed embodiment of self-approving
ineptitude. If it had been merely Kathleen's own affair Rupert would
have shrugged his shoulders and philosophically hoped that she might make
the best of an undeniably bad bargain. But Rupert had no heir; his own
boy lay underground somewhere on the Indian frontier, in goodly company.
And the property would pass in due curse to Kathleen and Kathleen's
husband. The Sheep would live there in the beloved old home, rearing up
other little Sheep, fatuous and rabbit-faced and self-satisfied like
himself, to dwell in the land and possess it. It was not a soothing
prospect.

Towards dusk on the afternoon following the bridge experience Rupert and
the Sheep made their way homeward after a day's mixed shooting. The
Sheep's cartridge bag was nearly empty, but his game bag showed no signs
of over-crowding. The birds he had shot at had seemed for the most part
as impervious to death or damage as the hero of a melodrama. And for
each failure to drop his bird he had some explanation or apology ready on
his lips. Now he was striding along in front of his host, chattering
happily over his shoulder, but obviously on the look-out for some belated
rabbit or woodpigeon that might haply be secured as an eleventh-hour
addition to his bag. As they passed the edge of a small copse a large
bird rose from the ground and flew slowly towards the trees, offering an
easy shot to the oncoming sportsmen. The Sheep banged forth with both
barrels, and gave an exultant cry.

"Horray! I've shot a thundering big hawk!"

"To be exact, you've shot a honey-buzzard. That is the hen bird of one
of the few pairs of honey-buzzards breeding in the United Kingdom. We've
kept them under the strictest preservation for the last four years; every
game-keeper and village gun loafer for twenty miles round has been warned
and bribed and threatened to respect their sanctity, and egg-snatching
agents have been carefully guarded against during the breeding season.
Hundreds of lovers of rare birds have delighted in seeing their
snap-shotted portraits in _Country Life_, and now you've reduced the hen
bird to a lump of broken feathers."

Rupert spoke quietly and evenly, but