“I won’t promise that—the world can’t cease to revolve on its axis because Archie Brown has a tendency to giddiness.”
Mr. Playdell was grave. Then he said, thoughtfully, “Whatever the women may be, they can’t be of the stamp of Mrs. Mowbray.”
“You may trust my sister for that. You may also trust her to see that they are less beautiful than Mrs. Mowbray,” remarked Harold.
Mr. Playdell pondered.
“Pheasant-shooting is expensive in its way,” said he. “The preservation of grouse runs away with a good deal of money also, I am told. Race horses, it is generally understood, entail considerable outlay. Put them all together, and you only come within measurable distance of Mrs. Mowbray and Shakespeare as a pastime—with nothing to show for the money—absolutely nothing to show for the money.”
“Except Mrs. Mowbray and Shakespeare.”
“Mr. Wynne, I believe that your kind suggestion may be the saving of that lad,” said Playdell.
“Oh, it’s the merest chance,” said Harold. “He may grow sick of the whole business after the first battue.”
“He won’t. I’ve known men saved from destruction by scoring a century in a first-class cricket match: they gave themselves up to cricket, to the exclusion of other games less healthy. If Archie takes kindly to the pheasants, he may make up his mind to buy a place and preserve them. That will be a healthy occupation for him. You will give him to understand that it’s the proper thing to do, Mr. Wynne.”
“You may depend upon me. I’ll write to my sister to invite him. It’s only an experiment.”