He looked wistfully through the bare trees on the lawn, as though he saw in imagination the scarlet horsemen pounding away after the streaming line of hounds.
His pupil thrust into a book a sketch of Pamela which he had been making absent-mindedly.
"Why don't you hunt, sir?" he asked, with sympathy.
"So I do, my lad, when I can. But I can't afford to keep a horse, and there aren't many mounts to be had here. Glengall is going to set up stables when he comes back, and I'll have the run of them, I suppose. He's a good fellow—one wouldn't mind being obliged to him."
"The mare'll be a good one when she's broken," said the young man.
"The best in the world for Irish fences, if she does look a bit roughish."
"You'll ride her for me, when I am away at Christmas, to get her mouth in?"
"Thank you, my lad; I should like to." Mr. Graydon's eye kindled with pleasure. "But I didn't know you were going. It seems a longish way to go home for Christmas."
"My mother would like to see me."
"To be sure, to be sure. I quite understand, and, of course, there are friends in London you naturally want to see."