porters at bay until you've talked to Hildegarde. What do you say?"
"I'll say this—that you ought to be blowing a reed pipe among the rushes. You've got no more sense of responsibility than a—goat."
"So Ethel tells me," there was a glint of laughter in Carew's eyes, "only she puts it more poetically as—Pan."
Winslow meditated a moment, then agreed, "I'll go. As you say it will be one way to avoid the newspaper men. I don't see why I didn't insist on settling the thing tonight. Then I'd have had a story ready."
Louis shrugged his shoulders. "You'll probably have a better one by waiting until morning. But I suggest we don't talk about it. Hildegarde will make the final decision. And until we have it out with her, we won't discuss it. It would be a pity to spoil a perfectly good morning's shooting with an argument."
It was typical of the sporting attitude of the two men that they started off before daylight with what seemed on the surface the utmost friendliness. They had a hearty breakfast at the Inn, with a great fire on the hearth, with Christopher serving ham and eggs and hot cakes, and with other hunters coming in to eat other hearty breakfasts at other tables.
Through it all, the light-heartedness of Louis was a matter of amazement to Winslow. He had, apparently, not a care in the world. He cracked jokes with Christopher, and with the men at the surrounding tables laughed a great deal, and when at last he stood for a moment with his back to the blaze he gave an effect of youth which was astounding.
