“No,” he answered. “I gave up shooting years ago.”
“Oh—? Hunting, then?”
“I hate hunting. One is always getting rolled on by one's horse.”
“Ah, I see. It—it will be golf, perhaps?”
“No, it is not even golf.”
“Don't tell me it is football?”
“Do I look as if it were football?”
“It is sheer homesickness, in fine? You are grieving for the purple of your native heather?”
“There is scarcely any heather in my native county. No,” said Peter, “no. To tell you the truth, it is the usual thing. It is an histoire de femme.”
“I 'might have guessed it,” she exclaimed. “It is still that everlasting woman.”