“Oh, how I hate that man!” exclaimed her ladyship petulantly.

“But I’ve given Tompkins final instructions.”

“And what are they?”

“To throw him in the river next time.”

“Oh, if he only could!” rapturously.

“Could?  My dear, Tompkins is an American.  He can handle these chaps in their own way.  At any rate, I told Tompkins if his nerve failed him at the last minute to come and notify me. I’ll attend to this confounded popinjay!”

“Good for you, Cecil!” called out another young woman from, the broad hammock in which she had been dawdling with half-alert ears through the foregoing conversation.  “Spoken like a true Briton.  What is this popinjay like?”

“Hullo, sister.  Hang it all, what’s he like?  He’s like an ass, that’s all.  I’ve never seen him, but if I’m ever called upon to—­but you don’t care to listen to details.  You remember the big log that lies out in the river up at the bend?  Well, it marks the property line.  One half of its stump belongs to the Shaw man, the other half to m—­to us, Evelyn.  He shan’t fish below that log—­no, sir!” His lordship glared fiercely through his monocle in the direction of the far-away log, his watery blue eyes blinking as malevolently as possible, his long, aristocratic nose wrinkling at its base in fine disdain.  His five feet four of stature quivered with illy-subdued emotion, but whether it was rage or the sudden recollection of the dog-trot through the woods, it is beyond me to suggest.

“But suppose our fish venture into his waters, Cecil; what then?  Isn’t that trespass?” demanded the Honorable Penelope Drake, youngest and most cherished sister of his lordship.

“Now, don’t he silly, Pen,” cried her sister-in-law.  “Of course we can’t regulate the fish.”

“But I daresay his fish will come below the log, so what’s the odds?” said his lordship quickly.  “A trout’s a lawless brute at best.”

“Is he big?” asked the Honorable Penelope lazily.

“They vary, my dear girl.”

“I mean Mr. Shaw.”

“Oh, I thought you meant the—­but I don’t know.  What difference does that make?  Big or little, he has to stay off my grounds.”  Was it a look of pride that his tall young wife bestowed upon him as he drew himself proudly erect or was it akin to pity?  At any rate, her gay young American head was inches above his own when she arose and suggested that they go inside and prepare for the housing of the guests who were to come over from the evening train.

“The drag has gone over to the station, Cecil, and it should be here by seven o’clock.”

“Confound his impudence, I’ll show him,” grumbled his lordship as he followed her, stiff-legged, toward the door.

“What’s up, Cecil, with your legs?” called his sister.  “Are you getting old?” This suggestion always irritated him.

“Old?  Silly question.  You know how old I am.  No; it’s that beastly American horse.  Evelyn, I told you they have no decent horses in this beastly country.  They jiggle the life out of one—­” but he was obliged to unbend himself perceptibly in order to keep pace with her as she hurried through the door.