Lord Harry! how that man can shoot! Isn't it a pity that--" He said no more; his pretty wife astride her thoroughbred sat silent, grey eyes fixed on the distant figures of Sylvia Landis and Siward, now shoulder deep in the reeds.
"Was it--very bad last night ?" she asked in a low voice.
Ferrall shrugged.

"He was not offensive; he walked steadily enough up-stairs.

When I went into his room he lay on the bed as if he'd been struck by lightning.

And yet--you see how he is this morning ?" "After a while," his wife said, "it is going to alter him some day--dreadfully--isn't it, Kemp ?" "You mean--like Mortimer ?" "Yes--only Leroy was always a pig." As they turned their horses toward the high-road Mrs.Ferrall said: "Do you know why Sylvia isn't shooting with Howard ?" "No," replied her husband indifferently; "do you ?" "No." She looked out across the sunlit ocean, grave grey eyes brightening with suppressed mischief.

"But I half suspect." "What ?" "Oh, all sorts of things, Kemp." "What's one of 'em ?" asked Ferrall, looking around at her; but his wife only laughed.
"You don't mean she's throwing her flies at Siward--now that you've hooked Quarrier for her! I thought she'd played him to the gaff--" "Please don't be coarse, Kemp," said Mrs.Ferrall, sending her horse forward.