THE SILVER FOX 83 



charged and volleyed in stubborn fastnesses 

 of cliff. The low hills behind the house 

 were clothed with woods, brown and grey 

 now in the mute suspense of January, 

 touched here and there with orange where 

 last year's beech leaves clung like a stain 

 of rust. 



It was a big outlook, and the owner of 

 French's Court was a very small incident of 

 the foreground, as he stood on the terrace 

 and watched the fishing-boats creeping out 

 in the raw, grey calm to the solitudes 

 beyond the horizon. A portmanteau and 

 a gun-case stood on the steps of the hall 

 door, and a brown retriever was moving 

 nervously round the gun-case, hurrying 

 from it now and again to thrust her curly 

 head into Hugh's hand, and beseech him 

 with her amber eyes not to leave her 

 behind. Every dog believed in Hugh, and 

 told him so by the varied and untiring dog 

 methods, but now, with that restless and 

 aching reference of all things to one subject, 

 Hugh gave his hand to the innocent homage 



