"Are you telling me that you're going to shoot there tomorrow?"
"Rather! Why not?"
"If I'd known you wanted to shoot, you could have taken my place," said Sir William, who belonged to a syndicate. "You'd have had better company and better sport. The way the Palings' shoot has been allowed to deteriorate since Fanshawe's death is a scandal. You'll find the birds as wild as be - damned - if you see any birds at all."
"Then I shan't shoot anything," responded Hugh fatalistically. "I'm not good enough for your crowd, in any case, sir. You're all so grand, with your loaders and your second guns. I can't cope at all."
Sir William relapsed into silence. His wife, who knew him to be brooding over the changed times that had made it impossible for him any longer to run his own shoot, and thus see to it that his son was not flustered by two guns and a loader, diverted his attention by asking Hugh if he had yet met Vicky Fanshawe.
"No, that's a pleasure to come. Mary tells me she has to be seen to be believed."
"I saw her in Fritton the other day," said Lady Dering. "Very pretty, rather what one imagines her mother might have been like at the same age. Why did Mary say she had to be seen to be believed?"
"I gather that she's a turn in herself. Full of histrionic talent."
"She looked rather sweet. They tell me that all the young men in the neighbourhood are wild about her."
"Gentlemen prefer blondes, in fact," said Hugh, striking a match. "Is the Russian prince one of the more eligible suitors?"