He was, now that he knew Plank, contented to accept him anywhere he met him; but Plank's upward evolutions upon the social ladder were of no interest to him, and his naïve snobbery was becoming something of a bore.
So Siward directed the conversation into other channels, and Plank, accepting another cup of tea, became very communicative about his stables and his dogs, and the preservation of game; and after a while, looking up confidently at Siward, he said:
“Do you think it beastly to drive pheasants the way I did at Black Fells? I have heard that you were disgusted.”
“It isn't my idea of a square deal,” said Siward frankly.
“That settles it, then.”
“But you should not let me interfere with—”
“I'll take your opinion, and thank you for it. It didn't seem to me to be the thing; only it's done over here, you know. The De Coursay's and the—”
“Yes, I know.... Glad you feel that way about it, Plank. It's pretty rotten sportsmanship. Don't you think so?”
“I do. I—would you—I should like to ask you to try some square shooting at the Fells,” stammered Plank, “next season, if you would care to.”
“You're very good. I should like to, if I were going to shoot at all; but I fancy my shooting days are over, for a while.”