52 THE MASTER OF THE HOUNDS. 



" That, I hope, lie knows already," replied Blanche. 



" So much the better, dear ; don't spare him, for you may 

 rest assured he will not spare you." 



Meanwhile, the dining-room rung with the cheerful voices 

 of the old baronet's companions, who, under the good-humoured 

 presidency of their warm-hearted host (no Lord Mervyn being 

 present to damp their conviviality), indulged in their after- 

 dinner jocularity without restraint. The last day's sport was 

 run over again by the two veterans, and the arrangements for 

 the ensuing week canvassed. 



"I think," observed Mr. Compton, "it is my turn next, 

 Mr. Beauchamp ; we have plenty of foxes as well as pheasants, 

 and Mrs. Compton and the children are quite impatient to see 

 the hounds again." 



'•Whenever you like, Compton," replied the old squire, 

 " after next week. Take your choice of the three days — Monday, 

 Thursday, or Saturday." 



" The last, then," said Compton, "as I promised to let some 

 friends know the first regular fixture for our place." 



" Well, Compton," said Conyers, " I wish your keeper would 

 give Lord Mervyn the receipt for preserving foxes and phea- 

 sants under the same crust. His won't keep together ; yours 

 always do, and both last good till the end of the season." 



" Everything depends on the seasoning supplied to the head- 

 cook," replied Compton, good-humouredly, " which I never 

 spare. In fact, he would get a peppering himself, if foxes and 

 pheasants were not found in the same covert, and both good of 

 their kind." 



" I never tasted a roast fox," said Conyers, " although I have 

 heard of a fool who once ordered one for dinner. But I'll bear 

 testimony to the flavour of your pheasants; and the hounds 

 seem to relish your foxes, too, by the way they so pertinaciously 

 follow in their wake across country. Why, let me see, or 

 think, rather, of my memorandum-book for last season, which 

 records the eating of nine foxes out of ten, from Compton's 

 little spinnies, and all despatched after capital runs — pretty 

 good for a game-preserver, and no fox-hunter ! Well, Compton, 

 you are one of the right sort, barring an error in your educa- 

 tion ; but when your son and heir comes home for the Christmas 

 holidays, I have promised Mrs. Compton to give him a few 

 preliminary lessons in the art of horsemanship, and I hope he'll 

 turn out a fox- hunter' — that's all the harm I shall do for him. 

 And he won't make the worse statesman for having a know- 



