the woods, the
shrill bucolic voice of the keeper, admonishing a wayward dog. He was
conscious of even a certain tenderness for this keeper--and again the
cry of "mark!" rose, strenuously addressed to him.

Half an hour later the wood had been cleared, and Thorpe saw the rest
of the party assembling by the gate. He did not hurry to join them, but
when Lord Plowden appeared he sauntered slowly over, gun over arm, with
as indifferent an air as he could simulate. It pleased him tremendously
that no one had thought it worth while to approach the rendezvous by
way of the spot he had covered. His eye took instant stock of the game
carried by two of the boys; their combined prizes were eight birds and a
rabbit, and his heart leaped within him at the count.

"Well, Thorpe?" asked Plowden, pleasantly. The smell of gunpowder and
the sight of stained feathers had co-operated to brighten and cheer his
mood. "I heard you blazing away in great form. Did you get anything?"

Thorpe strove hard to give his voice a careless note. "Let some of the
boys run over," he said slowly. "There are nine birds within sight, and
there are two or three in the bushes--but they may have got away."

"Gad!" said Balder.

"Magnificent!" was his brother's comment--and Thorpe permitted himself
the luxury of a long-drawn, beaming sigh of triumph.

The roseate colouring of this triumph seemed really to tint everything
that remained of Thorpe's visit. He set down to it without hesitation
the visible augmentation of deference to him among the servants. The
temptation was very great to believe that it had affected the ladies of
the house as well. He could not say that they were more gracious to him,
but certainly they appeared to take him more for granted. In a hundred
little ways, he seemed to perceive that he was no longer held mentally
at arm's length as a stranger to their caste. Of course, his own
restored self-confidence could account for much of this, but he clung to
the whimsical conceit that much was also due to the fact that he was the
man of the pheasants.

Sunday was bleak and stormy, and no one stirred out of the house. He was
alone again with the ladies at breakfast, and during the long day he was
much in their company. It was like no other day he had ever imagined to
himself.

On the morrow, in the morning train by which he returned alone to town,
his mind roved luxuriously among the fragrant memories of that day.
He had been so perfectl