'NOT THE WOMAN'S PLACE' 235 



I should like to write the story of a hunting day 

 more typical of this past time of war, and to show 

 faithfully, if faintly, what are some of the minor trials 

 of a Deputy Master, and, as Ireland is best known to 

 me, let that day be in Ireland. (There is no need to 

 say that the facts apply to no special hunt, since, 

 given the position, they are practically common to 

 all.) 



Our typical day for our typical Deputy begins, 

 probably, at some eight of the clock, when a message, 

 poisoning the first and most precious moments of the 

 day, is delivered from the kennels, to say, idiomatic- 

 ally, that " it made a frost early in the night, but the 

 thaw was begun, and will the hounds be to go out ? " 



Peace ceases for the Deputy Master. She puts on 

 her dressing-gown and visits, with groanings, " the 

 glass." It is falling, which probably means snow. 

 An icy blast from an open window (windows should 

 be sealed, she decides, in a north-westerly winter 

 wind) suggests an impending blizzard. " Take not 

 out your hounds on a windy day;" she remembers 

 Beckford's counsel, and longs to have courage to obey 

 him. But the meet is advertised. The conscience 

 of a good young Deputy Master is a very tender 

 thing; there is moreover something attractive in 

 the knotted scourge and the hair shirt to the zealot. 



" Tell him ' Yes, if the horses can travel,' " she 

 says firmly. 



She feels reasonably certain that there will be no 

 hunting. The governess is away and the children 

 have colds : she has Red Cross work to do, and her 

 unanswered letters face her as Ban quo 's murdered 

 line faced Macbeth. But advertised fixtures are 

 solemn things, especially to a Deputy Master; slie 

 gloomily gets into her habit. The post is no later 

 than was usual in those days of war; it arrives in 

 time to embitter her last moments, already made 



