that poor soft wandering eye, it was going back to Mother Earth. There
Foxleigh, too, some day must go, asking of Nature why she had murdered
him.




CHAPTER III

THE BLISSFUL HOUR

It was the hour between tea and dinner, when the spirit of the country
house was resting, conscious of its virtue, half asleep.

Having bathed and changed, George Pendyce took his betting-book into the
smoking-room. In a nook devoted to literature, protected from draught
and intrusion by a high leather screen, he sat down in an armchair and
fell into a doze.

With legs crossed, his chin resting on one hand, his comely figure
relaxed, he exhaled a fragrance of soap, as though in this perfect
peace his soul were giving off its natural odour. His spirit, on the
borderland of dreams, trembled with those faint stirrings of chivalry
and aspiration, the outcome of physical well-being after a long day in
the open air, the outcome of security from all that is unpleasant and
fraught with danger. He was awakened by voices.

"George is not a bad shot!"

"Gave a shocking exhibition at the last stand; Mrs. Bellew was with him.