ter. The aromatic perfume of
the spirits aroused Siward, and he instinctively nodded his desire to a
servant.

"This salt air keeps one thirsty," he observed to Ferrall; then
something in his host's expression arrested the glass at his lips. He
had already been using the decanter a good deal; except Mortimer, nobody
was doing that sort of thing as freely as he.

He set his glass on the table thoughtfully; a tinge of colour had crept
into his lean checks.

Ferrall, too, suddenly uncomfortable, stood up saying something about
dressing; several men arose a trifle stiffly, feeling in every joint the
result of the first day's shooting after all those idle months. Mortimer
got up with an unfeigned groan; Siward followed, leaving his glass
untouched.

One or two other men came in from the billiard-room. All greeted Siward
amiably--all excepting one who may not have seen him--an elderly, pink,
soft gentleman with white downy chop-whiskers and the profile of a
benevolent buck rabbit.

"How do you do, Major Belwether?" said Siward in a low voice without
offering his hand.

Then Major Belwether saw him, bless you! yes indeed! And though Siward
continued not to offer his hand, Major Belwether meant to have it, bless
your heart! And he fussed and fussed and beamed cordiality until he
secured it in his plump white fingers and pressed it effusively.

There was something about his soft, warm hands which had always reminded
Siward of the temperature and texture of a newly hatched bird. It had
been some time since he had shaken hands with Major Belwether; it was
apparent that the bird had not aged any.

"And now for the shooting!" said the Major with an arch smile. "Now for
the stag at bay and the winding horn--

'Where sleeps the moon On Mona's rill--'

Eh, Siward?

'And here's to the hound With his nose upon the ground--'

Eh, my boy? That reminds me of a story--" He chuckled and chuckled,
his lambent eyes suffused with mirth; and slipping his arm through the
pivot-sleeve of Lord Alderdene's shooting-jacket, hooking the other in
Siward's reluctant elbow, and driving Mortimer ahead of him, he went
garrulously away up the stairs, his lordship's bandy little legs
trotting beside him, the soaking gaiters and shoes slopping at every
step.

Mortimer, his mottled skin now sufficiently distended, greeted the story
with a yawn from ear to ear; his lordship, blinking madly, burst into
that remarkable laugh which seemed