town on the second Saturday after Christmas, I had stayed over the
Sunday, for on the Monday hounds were to meet at the Manor House. All
the other guests, with the exception of two cousins of Sir Roland's, had
left on the Saturday, so that we were a family party to all intents; in
secret I was determined that before the dawn of spring I should be a
member of the family in reality.

Mounted on a well-shaped chestnut three parts thoroughbred, Dulcie had
never, I thought, looked so wholly captivating as she did on that Monday
morning; I overtook her, I remember, while the chattering cavalcade
trotted from the meet at Holt Manor to the first cover to be drawn.

The first cover proved to be tenantless. So did a small, thickly
underwooded copse. So did a stretch of bracken. So did a large pine wood
some miles from Holt Manor, which was usually a sure find.

"You may say what you like," Dulcie exclaimed as the notes of the
huntsman's horn warned us that the pack was once more being blown out of
cover, "I maintain still that a drag hunt has advantages over a fox
hunt--your red herring or your sack of aniseed rags never disappoint
you, and you are bound to get a run."

As we turned out of the lane into a broad meadow, then broke into a hand
canter across the soft, springy turf, to take up our position at a point
where we could easily slip forward if hounds should find, I told Dulcie
jokingly that if her father preserved foxes as carefully as he always
said he did, these covers on his estate would not have been drawn blank.

She turned her head sharply.