Julian entered the drawing-room at Maltenby Hall a few minutes before dinner time that evening.

His mother, who was alone and, for a wonder, resting, held out her hand for him to kiss and welcomed him with a charming smile.

Notwithstanding her grey hair, she was still a remarkably young-looking woman, with a great reputation as a hostess.
"My dear Julian," she exclaimed, "you look like a ghost! Don't tell me that you had to sit up all night to shoot those wretched duck ?" Julian drew a chair to his mother's side and seated himself with a little air of relief.
"Never have I been more conscious of the inroads of age," he confided.
"I can remember when, ten or fifteen years ago, I used to steal out of the house in the darkness and bicycle down to the marsh with a twenty-bore gun, on the chance of an odd shot." "And I suppose," his mother went on, "after spending half the night wading about in the salt water, you spent the other half talking to that terrible Mr.Furley." "Quite right.

We got cold and wet through in the evening; we sat up talking till the small hours; we got cold and wet again this morning--and here I am." "A converted sportsman," his mother observed.

"I wish you could convert your friend, Mr.Furley.