human bric-a-brac decorating halls and corners; no exotic pheasants
hustled into covert and out again; no fusillade at the wretched,
frightened, bewildered aliens dumped by the thousand into unfamiliar
cover and driven toward the guns by improvised beaters.

"We walk up our game or we follow a brace of good dogs in this white
man's country," he said with unnecessary emphasis whenever his bad taste
and his wife's absence gave him an opportunity to express to the casual
foreigner his personal opinions on field sport. "You'll load your own
guns and you'll use your own legs if you shoot with me; and your dogs
will do their own retrieving, too. And if anybody desires a Yankee's
opinion on shooting driven birds from rocking-chairs or potting tame
deer from grand-stands, they can have it right now!"

Usually nobody wanted his further opinion; and sometimes they got it and
sometimes not, if his wife was within earshot. Otherwise Ferrall
appeared to be a normal man, energetically devoted to his business, his
pleasures, his friends, and comfortably in love with his wife. And if
some considered his vigour in business to be lacking in mercy, that
vigour was always exercised within the law. He never transgressed the
rules of war, but his headlong energy sometimes landed him close to the
dead line. He had already breakfasted, when the earliest risers entered
the morning room to saunter about the sideboards and investigate the
simmering contents of silver-covered dishes on the warmers.

The fragrance of coffee was pleasantly perceptible; men in conventional
shooting attire roamed about the room, selected what they cared for, and
carried it to the table. Mrs. Mortimer was there consuming peaches that
matched her own complexion; Marion Page, always more congruous in field
costume and belted jacket than in anything else, and always, like her