“Ah!” said the Commodore, “when they oncesh begin to lose eggsh—”
“As a matter of fact, his son—you remember him, Sir James, he used to load for you?—got a girl into trouble; when her people gave her the chuck old Smollet took her in; beastly scandal it made, too. The girl refused to marry Smollett, and old Smollett backed her up. Naturally, the parson and the village cut up rough; my wife offered to get her into one of those reformatory what-d' you-call-'.ms, but the old fellow said she should n't go if she did n't want to. Bad business altogether; put him quite off his stroke. I only got five hundred pheasants last year instead of eight.”
There was a silence. Shelton again peeped through the hedge. All were eating pie.
“In Warwickshire,” said the Commodore, “they always marry—haw—and live reshpectable ever after.”
“Quite so,” remarked the host; “it was a bit too thick, her refusing to marry him. She said he took advantage of her.”
“She's sorry by this time,” said Sir James; “lucky escape for young Smollett. Queer, the obstinacy of some of these old fellows!”
“What are we doing after lunch?” asked the Commodore.
“The next field,” said the host, “is pasture. We line up along the hedge, and drive that mustard towards the roots; there ought to be a good few birds.”
“Shelton rose, and, crouching, stole softly to the gate:
“On the twelfth, shootin' in two parties,” followed the voice of Mabbey from the distance.