THE PRICE A sense of bustle and mild excitement pervaded Trenby Hall.

The hounds were to meet some distance away, and on a hunting morning it invariably necessitated the services of at least two of the menservants and possibly those of an observant maid--who had noted where last he had left his tobacco pouch--to get Roger off successfully.
"My hunting boots, Jenkins!" he demanded as he issued from the library.
"And look sharp with them! Flask and sandwich-case--that's right." He busied himself bestowing these two requisites in his pockets.
Nan, cool and unperturbed; joined him in the hall, a small, amused smile on her face.

She had stayed at Trenby long enough by now to be well used to the cyclone which habitually accompanied Roger's departure to the meet, and the boyish unreasonableness of it--seeing that the well-trained servants invariably had everything in readiness for him--rather appealed to her.

He was like a big, overgrown school-boy returning to school and greatly concerned as to whether his cricket-bat and tuck-box were safely included amongst his baggage.
"You, darling ?" Roger nodded at her perfunctorily, preoccupied with the necessities of the moment.

"Now, have I got my pipe ?"--slapping his pockets to ascertain.