Mortimer got up with an unfeigned groan; Siward followed, leaving his glass untouched.
One or two other men came in from the billiard-room.

All greeted Siward amiably--all excepting one who may not have seen him--an elderly, pink, soft gentleman with white downy chop-whiskers and the profile of a benevolent buck rabbit.
"How do you do, Major Belwether ?" said Siward in a low voice without offering his hand.
Then Major Belwether saw him, bless you! yes indeed! And though Siward continued not to offer his hand, Major Belwether meant to have it, bless your heart! And he fussed and fussed and beamed cordiality until he secured it in his plump white fingers and pressed it effusively.
There was something about his soft, warm hands which had always reminded Siward of the temperature and texture of a newly hatched bird.

It had been some time since he had shaken hands with Major Belwether; it was apparent that the bird had not aged any.
"And now for the shooting!" said the Major with an arch smile.

"Now for the stag at bay and the winding horn-- 'Where sleeps the moon On Mona's rill--' Eh, Siward?
'And here's to the hound With his nose upon the ground--' Eh, my boy?
That reminds me of a story--" He chuckled and chuckled, his lambent eyes suffused with mirth; and slipping his arm through the pivot-sleeve of Lord Alderdene's shooting-jacket, hooking the other in Siward's reluctant elbow, and driving Mortimer ahead of him, he went garrulously away up the stairs, his lordship's bandy little legs trotting beside him, the soaking gaiters and shoes slopping at every step.
Mortimer, his mottled skin now sufficiently distended, greeted the story with a yawn from ear to ear; his lordship, blinking madly, burst into that remarkable laugh which seemed to reveal the absence of certain vocal cords requisite to perfect harmony; and Siward smiled in his listless, pleasant way, and turned off down his corridor, unaware that the Sagamore pup was following close at his heels until he heard Quarrier's even, colourless voice: "Ferrall, would you be good enough to send Sagamore to your kennels ?" "Oh--he's your dog! I forgot," said Siward turning around.
Quarrier looked at him, pausing a moment.
"Yes," he said coldly, "he's my dog." For a fraction of a second the two men's eyes encountered; then Siward glanced at the dog, and turned on his heel with the slightest shrug.
And that is all there was to the incident--an anxious, perplexed puppy lugged off by a servant, turning, jerking, twisting, resisting, looking piteously back as his unwilling feet slid over the polished floor.
So Siward walked on alone through the long eastern wing to his room overlooking the sea.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, glancing at the clothing laid out for him.