Roger looked pleased.

“Yes, it’s a fine old place,” he said.  “Now for the kennels.”

Nan breathed a sigh of relief.  She had had one instant of anxiety lest he should suggest that, instead of lunching, as arranged, from the picnic basket safely bestowed in the back of the car, they should lunch at the Hall.

Another fifteen minutes brought them to the kennels, Denman, the first whip, meeting them at the gates.  He touched his hat and threw a keen glance at Nan.  The Master of the Trevithick was not in the habit of bringing ladies to see the kennels, and the whip and his wife had discussed the matter very fully over their supper the previous evening, trying to guess what it might portend.  “A new mistress up at the ’All, I shouldn’t wonder,” asserted Mrs. Denman confidently.

“Hounds all fit, Denman?” asked Trenby in quick, authoritative tones.

“Yes, sir.  All ’cept ’Wrangler there—­’e’s still a bit stiff on that near hind leg he sprained.”

As he spoke, he held open the gate for Nan to pass in, and she glanced round with lively interest.  A flagged path ran straight ahead, dividing the large paved enclosure reserved for youngsters from the iron-fenced yards inhabited by the older hounds of the pack; while at the back of each enclosure lay the sleeping quarters of roofed and sheltered benches.  At the further end of the kennels stood a couple of cottages, where the whips and kennelman lived.

“How beautifully clean it all is!” exclaimed Nan.

The whip smiled with obvious delight.

“If you keep ’ounds, miss, you must keep ’em clean—­or they won’t be ‘ealthy and fit to do their day’s work.  An’ a day’s hunting is a day’s work for ‘ounds, an’ no mistake.”

“How like a woman to remark about cleanliness first of all!” laughed Roger.  “A man would have gone straight to look at the hounds before anything else!”

“I’m going now,” replied Nan, approaching the bars of one of the enclosures.

It seemed to her as though she were looking at a perfect sea of white and tan bodies with slowly waving sterns, while at intervals from the big throats came a murmurous sound, rising now and again into a low growl, or the sharp snap of powerful jaws and a whine of rage as a couple or more hounds scuffled together over some private disagreement.  At Nan’s appearance, drawn by curiosity, some of them approached her gingerly, half-suspicious, half as though anxious to make friends, and, knowing no fear of animals, she thrust her hand through the bars and stroked the great heads and necks.

“Can’t we go in?  They’re such dear things!” she begged.

“Better not,” answered Roger.  “They don’t always like strangers.”

“I’m not afraid,” she replied mutinously.  “Do just open the gate, anyway—­please!”

Trenby hesitated.

“Well—­” He yielded unwillingly, but Nan’s eyes were rather difficult to resist when they appealed.  “Open the gate, then, Denman.”