Volume Two—Chapter Nine.
The Major Happens to be there.
A poaching affray was too common an affair in the neighbourhood of Brackley to make much stir. Sir John went in for two or three discussions with his keepers, and the rural policeman had been summoned, this worthy feeling sure that he would be able—in his own words—to put his hand upon the parties; but though the officer might have had the ability to put his hand upon the parties, he did not do so, or if he did, he forgot to close it. Then the dog was buried, and as a set off, Sir John had a fire made of the nets and stakes that had been taken from the gang; these, and their spoil of several brace of pheasants and partridges and a few hares, having been left behind in their hurried flight.
So, as it happened, the active and intelligent constable made no discoveries; but Rolph did, and whereas the one would have revelled in the hopes of promotion, and in seeing his name several times in the county paper; the other, when he had made his discovery, said only—and to himself—that it was “doosid awkward,” and held his peace.
“I never did see such a girl as you are to read,” said Rolph, entering the drawing-room one afternoon, when he had ridden over from Aldershot; “at it again.”
He spoke lightly and merrily, and Glynne hastily put aside her book, and rose from her chair.
“Did you want me to go out for a ride, Robert?” she said rather eagerly.
“Well, no; not this afternoon.”