"I don't think so," Buz said decidedly; "they hate to be looked at when they're practising."
"Very well, very well, if you think so," Mr Ffolliot said with surprising meekness; "we'll go and see Willets instead, and tell him about that fox."
"I don't think I'd bother him, the fox is miles away by now."
"Well, where shall we go?" Mr Ffolliot demanded testily; "I've come out to walk with you, and you do nothing but object to every direction I propose."
"Let us," said Buz, praying for inspiration, "let us go straight on till we come to a cleaner bit."
Mr Ffolliot looked ruefully at his boots. "It is wet," he remarked, "mind you don't slip with that arm of yours."
"Shall I take the glasses, father?" Buz asked politely.
"Yes, do, though I'm not sure that I wholly approve of Grantly lending these expensive glasses to you younger ones. I must speak to him about it."
Buz sighed heavily.
* * * * * *