They found a fox after some delay in a copse on the side of a hill, and
the run that followed scattered even Anne's sedateness to the winds.
Something of youth, something of girlishness, yet dwelt within her and
bounded to the surface in response to the wild excitement of the chase.

The grey went like the wind. He and the black mare that Nap Errol rode
led the field, a distinction that Anne had never sought before, and which
she did not greatly appreciate on this occasion. For when they killed in
a chalky hollow, after half-an-hour's furious galloping across country
with scarcely a check, she dragged her animal round with a white, set
face and forced him from the scene.

Nap followed her after a little and found her fumbling at a gate
into a wood.

"I've secured the brush for you," he began. Then, seeing her face, "What
is it? You look sick."

"I feel sick," Anne said shakily.

He opened the gate for her, and followed her through. They found
themselves alone, separated from the rest of the hunt by a thick
belt of trees.

"Do you mean to say you have never seen a kill before?" he said.

"Never at close quarters," murmured Anne, with a shudder.

He rode for a little in silence. At length, "I'm sorry you didn't like
being in at the death," he said. "I thought you would be pleased."