“A shoot,” she cried, “I'd love to. But, Tom, you forget I am a rancher's wife, and you know, or at least you don't know, what that means. Run along and play with Jack. Some one must work. No, don't tempt me. I have my programme all laid out. I especially prayed this morning for grace to resist the lure of the outside this day. 'Get thee behind me—' What? I am listening, but I shouldn't be. What do you say? Tom, it cannot be!” She sat down weakly in a convenient chair and listened to her husband while he retailed her brother's great secret.
“And so, my dear, we are going to begin a big campaign—begin to-day—take the girls off with us for a shoot—what do you say, eh?”
“Why, certainly, Tom. Give me half an hour to get Martha fairly on the rails, and I am with you. We'll take those dear girls along. Oh, it is perfectly splendid. Now let me go; that will do, you foolish boy. Oh, yes, how lovely. Trust me to back you up. What? Don't spoil things. Well, I like that. Didn't I land you? That was 'some job,' as dear Nora would say. You listen to me, Tom. You had better keep in the background. Finesse is not your forte. Better leave these things to me. Hurry up now. Oh, I am so excited.”
Few women can resist an appeal for help from a husband. The acknowledgment of the need of help on the part of the dominating partner is in itself the most subtle flattery and almost always irresistible. No woman can resist the opportunity to join in that most fascinating of all sport—man-hunting. And when the man runs clear into the open wildly seeking not escape from but an opening into the net, this only adds a hazard and a consequent zest to the sport. Her husband's disclosures had aroused in Sybil Waring-Gaunt not so much her sporting instincts, the affair went deeper far than that with her. Beyond anything else in life she desired at that time to bring together the two beings whom, next to her husband, she loved best in the world. From the day that her brother had arrived in the country she had desired this, and more or less aggressively had tried to assist Providence in the ordering of events. But in Kathleen, with all her affection and all her sweet simplicity, there was a certain shy reserve that prevented confidences in the matter of her heart affairs.
“How far has the German got with her? That is what I would like to know,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt to herself as she hastily prepared for the motor ride. “There's no doubt about him. Every one can see how he stands, and he has such a masterful way with him that it makes one think that everything is settled. If it is there is no chance for Jack, for she is not the changing kind.” Meantime she would hope for the best and play the game as best she could.
“Would you mind running into the Gwynnes' as we pass, Tom?” said his wife as they settled themselves in the car. “I have a message for Nora.”
“Righto!” said her husband, throwing his wife a look which she refused utterly to notice. “But remember you must not be long. We cannot lose the evening shoot, eh, what?”
“Oh, just a moment will do,” said his wife.
At the door Nora greeted them. “Oh, you lucky people—guns and a dog, and a day like this,” she cried.
“Come along—lots of room—take my gun,” said Mr. Waring-Gaunt.