CHAPTER II.
THE COVERT SHOOT At the head of the breakfast-table sat Mr.Pendyce, eating methodically.
He was somewhat silent, as became a man who has just read family prayers; but about that silence, and the pile of half-opened letters on his right, was a hint of autocracy.
"Be informal--do what you like, dress as you like, sit where you like, eat what you like, drink tea or coffee, but----" Each glance of his eyes, each sentence of his sparing, semi-genial talk, seemed to repeat that "but".
At the foot of the breakfast-table sat Mrs.Pendyce behind a silver urn which emitted a gentle steam.

Her hands worked without ceasing amongst cups, and while they worked her lips worked too in spasmodic utterances that never had any reference to herself.

Pushed a little to her left and entirely neglected, lay a piece of dry toast on a small white plate.
Twice she took it up, buttered a bit of it, and put it down again.

Once she rested, and her eyes, which fell on Mrs.Bellow, seemed to say: "How very charming you look, my dear!" Then, taking up the sugar-tongs, she began again.
On the long sideboard covered with a white cloth reposed a number of edibles only to be found amongst that portion of the community which breeds creatures for its own devouring.

At one end of this row of viands was a large game pie with a triangular gap in the pastry; at the other, on two oval dishes, lay four cold partridges in various stages of decomposition.