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.  Behind them a silver basket of openwork design was occupied by three bunches of black, one bunch of white grapes, and a silver grape-cutter, which performed no function (it was so blunt), but had once belonged to a Totteridge and wore their crest.

No servants were in the room, but the side-door was now and again opened, and something brought in, and this suggested that behind the door persons were collected, only waiting to be called upon.  It was, in fact, as though Mr. Pendyce had said:  “A butler and two footmen at least could hand you things, but this is a simple country house.”

At times a male guest rose, napkin in hand, and said to a lady:  “Can I get you anything from the sideboard?” Being refused, he went and filled his own plate.  Three dogs—­two fox-terriers and a decrepit Skye circled round uneasily, smelling at the visitors’ napkins.  And there went up a hum of talk in which sentences like these could be distinguished:  “Rippin’ stand that, by the wood.  D’you remember your rockettin’ woodcock last year, Jerry?” “And the dear old Squire never touched a feather!  Did you, Squire?” “Dick—­Dick!  Bad dog!—­come and do your tricks.  Trust-trust!  Paid for!  Isn’t he rather a darling?”

On Mr. Pendyce’s foot, or by the side of his chair, whence he could see what was being eaten, sat the spaniel John, and now and then Mr. Pendyce, taking a small portion of something between his finger and thumb, would say: 

“John!—­Make a good breakfast, Sir James; I always say a half-breakfasted man is no good!”

And Mrs. Pendyce, her eyebrows lifted, would look anxiously up and down the table, murmuring:  “Another cup, dear; let me see—­are you sugar?”

When all had finished a silence fell, as if each sought to get away from what he had been eating, as if each felt he had been engaged in an unworthy practice; then Mr. Pendyce, finishing his last grape, wiped his mouth.

“You’ve a quarter of an hour, gentlemen; we start at ten-fifteen.”

Mrs. Pendyce, left seated with a vague, ironical smile, ate one mouthful of her buttered toast, now very old and leathery, gave the rest to “the dear dogs,” and called: 

“George!  You want a new shooting tie, dear boy; that green one’s quite faded.  I’ve been meaning to get some silks down for ages.  Have you had any news of your horse this morning?”

“Yes, Blacksmith says he’s fit as a fiddle.”

“I do so hope he’ll win that race for you.  Your Uncle Hubert once lost four thousand pounds over the Rutlandshire.  I remember perfectly; my father had to pay it.  I’m so glad you don’t bet, dear boy!”