CHAPTER V
In the morning Barnaby went out hunting. He started gaily, in old clothes, on a borrowed horse.
"Next time I die," he said, "and they put away my relics, I beg you all not to scatter infernal white knobs of poison among them to keep away the moths. I call it irreverent. And unless this horrible smell wears off I'll have to keep to leeward. A single whiff of it would kill the scent."
He came in at dusk, stiff and splashed, but contented, calling for tea, and waking up the house. It was extraordinary what a difference his presence made as he limped into the hall and hung up his whip. Life and vigour seemed to blow in with him; the terriers rushed at him dancing, barking, pattering into the library at his heels. Lady Henrietta, propped on her sofa, gave a little sharp sigh.
"Give him his tea, Susan," she said briskly. "How did he carry you, Barnaby? Who was out?"
"Oh, all the world and his wife," he said. "Carry me? He wouldn't have carried a grasshopper. But I changed on to a chestnut that Rivington wants to sell. I've bought him. Not much to look at, but he goes well enough, and I was so pleased to feel a real galloper under me, I'd have given him any price.... It's good to be here again. Though my boots are as hard as iron. I believe I am lamed for life. By the by, Susan, I've let you in for one thing. I couldn't help it."
She looked up, startled, from her place by the fire.
"It's only to dine out with some people to-morrow night," he said, noticing her alarm. "I couldn't get out of it, really; they mobbed me so."
"Who is it?" asked Lady Henrietta.