lips and the music of her voice, is to a man on this day the stubble under his feet, the feel of a gun in his hand, and the sight of a flock of little, soft, plump brown birds. The knowledge is degrading, and we all have a more or less hang-dog, neglected air. Alice looks as though she were going shooting too in her deft, workmanlike Norfolk suit of grey. I wonder if, in the city of veiled women in Siam, shooting is practised by the gentler sex, as well as the calling of policeman, soldier, and blacksmith?
Breakfast is over, and we are all leaving the dining-room.
"Won't you wish me good luck?" asks Paul Vasher, standing before me, big and masterful in his cool grey clothes. (What splendid legs he has got?)
"No, for you're bound on a bad errand. On the contrary, I hope you will miss everything, and that"—I cast about flounderingly for a suitable sporting phrase—"that your neighbour will wipe your eye!"
He laughs. "Who taught you that expression?"
"I forget. Jack, I think. It was quite right, was it not?"
"Quite."
We are all at the hall door now, where are gathered together sportsmen, keepers, and dogs, and a handful of young wives and maids. Milly is bidding her lord farewell for a whole day, with a fervour that many a death-bed parting lacks; Alice is standing on tiptoe to kiss Charles. Silvia and Sir George are in the background. It is as pretty a picture to my mind as any of Mr. Frith's.
"I hope," says Paul Vasher, "that you will enjoy your afternoon by the sea, and—You never answered my question yesterday—was it an impertinent one?"
"It was," I say, looking at him steadily through the burning red of my cheeks. "What if I had asked you if you had a Dulcinea?"
