Foster was a red-faced country gentleman who found his greatest interest in outdoor sports and was characterized by some native shrewdness and a genial but rather abrupt manner. He laid down his tools and looked up with an air of humorous resignation as his wife came in. Mrs. Foster was a slender, vivacious woman, fond of society.
"Put that greasy thing away for a few minutes and listen to me," she said, sitting down opposite him.
"I am listening; I'm inclined to think it's my normal state," Foster answered with a smile. "The greasy thing cost forty guineas, and I wouldn't trust it to Jenkins after young Jimmy dropped it in a ditch. Jenkins can rear pheasants with any keeper I've met, but he's no good at a gun."
"You shouldn't have taken Jimmy out; he's not strong enough yet."
"So it seems; he gave us some trouble in getting him back to the cart after he collapsed in the wood, but it wasn't my fault. He was keen on coming."
Mrs. Foster made a sign of agreement. Jimmy was her cousin, Lieutenant Walters, lately invalided home from India.
"Perhaps you were not so much to blame, but that was not what I came to talk about," she said.
"Then I suppose you want my approval of some new plans. Go ahead with any arrangements you wish to make, but as far as possible, leave me out. Though it was a very wet spring, I never saw the pheasants more plentiful; glad I stuck to the hand-rearing, though Jenkins wanted to leave the birds alone in the higher woods. Of course, now we've cleared out the vermin——"
"Oh! never mind," his wife broke in. "You would talk about such things all day. The question is——"
"It strikes me it's—— When are we going to have the house to ourselves? Though I don't interfere much, I've lately felt that I'm qualifying for a hotel-keeper."