all those who should be concerned in maintaining the hunt will turn their backs on him.  When I take my hounds over this man’s ground, and that man’s ground, certainly without doing him any good, I have to think of a great many things.  I have to understand that those whom I cannot compensate by money, I have to compensate by courtesy.  When I shake hands with a farmer and express my obligation to him because he does not lock his gates, he is gratified.  I don’t think any decent farmer would care much for shaking hands with Major Tifto.  If we fall into that kind of thing there must soon be an end of hunting.  Major Tiftos are cheap no doubt; but in hunting, as in most other things, cheap and nasty go together.  If men don’t choose to put their hands in their pockets they had better say so, and give the thing up altogether.  If you won’t take any more wine, we’ll go to the ladies.  Silverbridge, the trap will start from the door tomorrow morning precisely at 9.30 am.  Grantingham Cross is fourteen miles.’  Then they all left their chairs,—­but as they did so Mr Spooner finished the bottle of port-wine.

‘I never heard Chiltern speak so much like a book before,’ said Spooner to his wife as she drove him home that night.

The next morning everybody was ready for a start at half-past nine, except Mr Maule,—­as to whom his wife declared that she had left him in bed when she came down to breakfast.  ’He can never get there if we don’t take him,’ said Lord Chiltern, who was in truth the most good-natured man in the world.  Five minutes were allowed him, and then he came down with a large sandwich in one hand and a button-hook in the other, with which he was prepared to complete his toilet.  ‘What the deuce makes you always in such a hurry?’ were the first words he spoke as Lord Chiltern got on the box.  The Master knew him too well to argue the point.  ’Well;—­he always is in a hurry,’ said the sinner, when his wife accused him of ingratitude.

‘Where’s Spooner?’ asked the Master when he saw Mrs Spooner without her husband at the meet.

‘I knew how it would be when I saw the port-wine,’ she said in a whisper that could be heard all round.  ’He has got it this time sharp,—­in his great toe.  We shan’t find at Grantingham.  They were cutting wood there last week.  If I were you, my Lord, I’d go away to the Spinnies at once.’

‘I must draw the country regularly,’ muttered the Master.

The country was drawn regularly, but in vain till about two o’clock.  Not only was there no fox at Grantingham Wood, but none even at the Spinnies.  And at two, Fowler, with an anxious face, held a consultation with his more anxious master.  Trumpington Wood lay on their right, and that no doubt would have been the proper draw.  ‘I suppose we must try it,’ said Lord Chiltern.

Old Fowler looked very sour.  ’You might as well look for a fox under my wife’s bed, my Lord.’

‘I daresay we should find one there,’ said one of the wags of the hunt.  Fowler shook his head, feeling that this was no time for joking.