“A hen! Michael, a hen!” cried Sir Within, with displeasure.
“Yes, Sir, and a very fine one. It was the gentleman who has just come to Dinasllyn shot her this morning. I met him coming up here to excuse himself to you, and say how sorry he was. He gave me this card, and hoped you’d not be displeased at it.”
“What’s the name? I have not got my glass, Kate.”
“Mr. George Grenfell, Sir, Dover-street.”
“Grenfell, Grenfell—never heard of any Grenfells but Cox and Grenfell, the Piccadilly people, eh?”
Kate gave no answer, but still held the card, with her eyes fixed upon it.
“Sad thing to shoot a hen—very sad thing—and a remarkably fine bird; quite young, quite young,” muttered Sir Within to himself. “Could scarcely be the game sauce Grenfell, I think, eh, Kate? This apology smacks of the gentleman. What was he like, Michael?”
“A fine-looking man, Sir, standing as tall as me; and about thirty-six or thirty-eight, perhaps. He had a nice spaniel with him, Sir, one of the Woburn breed; I know ‘em well.”
“I’m sorry he shot that hen. Ain’t you, Kate?”
But Kate was deep in thought, and did not hear him.