Dorothy had heard this declaration of duty urged too often to be taken in by it any longer. A week in Devonshire would cure Tony of a landowner's anxiety whether about his pheasants or his peasants; after that he would discover in his bland way that London was more convenient than the country.
"You can get plenty of shooting in the Mediterranean," said Houston. "There's a desert island in the Ægean with mouflon that nobody ever succeeds in getting."
"What? I'll bet you two hundred to one in sovereigns that I bag a couple," Tony cried.
"I won't bet, because you'll lose your money. A friend of mine lay off for a week of fine weather—that's a rare occurrence in those waters—lost nearly a stone climbing the rocks, and at the end of it came away without hitting one."
"Ridiculous," Tony scoffed. "What gun did he use?"
"Don't ask me," laughed Houston. "All I know is he was a first-class shot, and if he couldn't succeed I don't believe anybody can."
"That's rot," Tony declared, angrily. "When are we going to start?"
"She's in commission and now lying at Plymouth, which will save your mother a long journey by train."
"My mother?" Tony echoed, in astonishment.
Dorothy revealed her plan for inviting the dowager and Bella, and Tony was so anxious to prove he was right about the mouflon that he made no objections.