130 SHOOTING THE PARTRIDGE 
at the opera, or of the little lock of chestnut hair, 
which even she does not know is lying now in your 
pocket, so near—so much too near—your heart? 
‘Non, je mourrais, mais je veux la revoir,’ sings in 
your ears the glorious voice of Jean de Reszké. Again 
your thoughts fly off; to the tropical marsh and the 
snorting rush of the wounded rhino through the 
reeds ; to your shares in the new drifts of Mashona- 
land, and their possible value; to the horse that 
failed by a short head to land the ‘1,000 to 30, 
twice’ that might have saved you ; to the dire con- 
fusion following, and your flight by reason of this to 
Afric’s coral strand ; to the cares and complications, 
the duns and dilemmas of London life. And as these 
almost bring you back to consciousness, a fresher 
gust of breeze sweeps down the fence, and—‘ Hold 
up those birds there, on the left ; hold ’em up, hold 
’em up!’ The clear voice of Marlowe, prince of 
partridge-drivers, ringing out from the down-wind 
side, the crack of his whip, and the rattle of his 
horse’s feet tell you that he is already round and into 
the turnips, and with a sharp whirring rattle, like the 
flutter of a moth’s wings in a cardboard box, three 
birds are over the fence on your left, and almost on 
you before you see them. Up and round you swing, 
killing one stone dead, but the second was too far, 
