“They did; a vicar of Ottinge actually kept hounds. Father says he only left a dozen dusty books in the library, but a hundred dozen of sound wine in the cellar.”
“Yes, those were the good old days!”
“I’m not so sure that they were superior to our own times. What do you say?”
“That I hope you will always have a good time, Miss Morven.”
Miss Morven coloured and bit her lip, but resumed—
“If I only might hunt, I would be bound to have a good time.”
“Is your horse a clever jumper?”
“No; he either blunders on his head, or sits down.”
“Doesn’t sound very promising!” and they both laughed. “Anyway, it’s a rotten, bad country,” said Wynyard, with a contemptuous wave of his hand; “the uplands are full of rabbit holes, and as for the lowlands—you’d want a boat! You should see Leicestershire—big fields and sound turf.”
“Yes; but I’m afraid I can’t hunt in Leicestershire from Ottinge,” she answered, with a smile; “and I have some hopes of sport this winter. Mrs. Waring, who is tremendously keen, wants me to go out with her.”