“Yes,” he would say, genially, to an enquiring farmer, “I have four ploughmen and two dairymaids!”

Or, to a friend of soldiering days:  “Four blackguard boys and only a brace of the Plentiful Sex!”

A disproportion for which, by some singular action of the mind, he took to himself considerable credit.

Miss Frederica Coppinger (who will presently be introduced) was accustomed to scandalise Lady Isabel by the assertion that paternal affection no more existed in men than in tom-cats.  An over-statement, no doubt, but one that was quite free from malice or disapproval.  Undoubtedly, a father should learn to bear the yoke in his youth, and Dick was old, as fathers go.  It cannot be denied that when the Four Blackguards began to clamour for mounts with the hounds, and the representatives of the Plentiful Sex outgrew the donkey, Major Talbot-Lowry had moments of resentment against his offspring, during which his wife, like a wise doe-rabbit, found it safest to sweep her children out of sight, and to sit at the mouth of the burrow, having armed herself with an appealing headache and a better dinner than usual.  The children liked him; not very much, but sufficient for general decency and the Fifth Commandment.  They loved their mother, but despised her, faintly; (again, not too much for compliance with the Commandment aforesaid).  Finally, it may be said that Major Dick and Lady Isabel were sincerely attached to one another, and that she took his part, quite frequently, against the children.

If, accepting the tom-cat standard of paternity, Dick Talbot-Lowry had a preference for one kitten more than another, that kitten was, indisputably, Christian.

“The little devil knows the hounds better than I do!” he would say to a brother M.F.H. at the Puppy Show.  “Her mother can’t keep her out of the kennels.  And the hounds are mad about her.  I believe she could take ’em walking-out single-handed!”

To which the brother M.F.H. would probably respond with perfidious warmth:  “By Jove!” while, addressing that inner confidant, who always receives the raciest share of any conversation, he would say that he’d be jiggered before he’d let any of his children mess the hounds about with petting and nonsense.

In justice to Lady Isabel, it should be said that she shared the visiting M.F.H.’s view of the position, though regarding it from a different angle.

“Christian, my dearest child,” she said, on the day following the Puppy Show that had coincided with Christian’s eighth birthday, when, after a long search, she had discovered her youngest daughter, seated, tailor-wise, in one of the kennels, the centre of a mat of hounds.  “This is not a not a place for you!  You don’t know what you may not bring back with you—­”

“If you mean fleas, Mother,” replied Christian, firmly, “the hounds have none, except what I bring them from Yummie.” (Yummie was Lady Isabel’s dog, a sickly and much despised spaniel).  “The Hounds!” Christian laughed a little; the laugh that is the flower of the root of scorn.  Then her eyes softened and glowed.  “Darlings!” she murmured, kissing wildly the tan head of the puppy who, but the day before, had been rest from her charge.