“It’s a trick,” said Howard; “you have got to get a particular swing, and when you have got it, it’s difficult to miss—­it’s only practice; and I shot a good deal at one time.”

Howard was unreasonably happy that afternoon.  It was a still, sunny day, and the steep down stretched away above them, an ancient English woodland, with all its thorn-thickets and elder-clumps.  It had been like this, he thought, from the beginning of history, never touched by the hand of man.  The expectant waiting, the quick aim, the sudden shot, took off the restlessness of his brain; and as they stood there, often waiting for a long time in silence, a peculiar quality of peace and contentment enveloped his spirit.  It was all so old, so settled, so quiet, that all sense of retrospect and prospect passed from his mind.  He was just glad to be alive and alert, glad of his friendly companion, robust and strong.  A few pictures passed before his mind, but he was glad just to let his eyes wander over the scene, the steep turf ramparts, the close-set dingles, the spring sunshine falling softly over all, as the sun passed over and the shadows lengthened.  At last a ferret got hung up, and had to be dug out.  Howard looked at his watch, and said they must go back to tea.  Jack protested in vain that there was plenty of light left.  Howard said they were expected back.  They left the keeper to recover the ferret, and went back quickly down the valley.  Jack was in supreme delight.

“Well, that’s an honest way of spending time!” he said.  “My word, how I dangle about here; it isn’t good for my health.  But, by George, I wish I could shoot like you, Mr. Kennedy, Sir.”

“Why this sudden obsequiousness?” said Howard.

“Oh, because I never know what to call you,” said Jack.  “I can’t call you by your Christian name, and Mr. Kennedy seems absurd.  What do you like?”

“Whatever comes naturally,” said Howard.

“Well, I’ll call you Howard when we are together,” said Jack.  “But mind, not at Beaufort!  If I call you anything, it will have to be Mr. Kennedy.  I hate men fraternising with the Dons.  The Dons rather encourage it, because it makes them feel youthful and bucks them up.  The men are just as bad about Christian names.  Gratters on getting your Christian name, you know!  It’s like a girls’ school.  I wonder why Cambridge is more like a girls’ school than a public school is?  I suppose they are more sentimental.  I do loathe that.”

When they got back they found Maud at tea; she had been there all the afternoon; she greeted Howard very pleasantly, but there was a touch of embarrassment created by the presence of Jack, who regarded her severely and called her “Miss.”

“He’s got some grudge against me,” said Maud to Howard.  “He always has when he calls me Miss.”

“What else should I call you?” said Jack; “Mr. Kennedy has been telling me that one should call people by whatever name seems natural.  You are a Miss to-day, and no mistake.  You are at some game or other!”