He set his glass on the table thoughtfully; a tinge of colour had crept into his lean checks.
Ferrall, too, suddenly uncomfortable, stood up saying something about dressing; several men arose a trifle stiffly, feeling in every joint the result of the first day's shooting after all those idle months. Mortimer got up with an unfeigned groan; Siward followed, leaving his glass untouched.
One or two other men came in from the billiard-room. All greeted Siward amiably—all excepting one who may not have seen him—an elderly, pink, soft gentleman with white downy chop-whiskers and the profile of a benevolent buck rabbit.
“How do you do, Major Belwether?” said Siward in a low voice without offering his hand.
Then Major Belwether saw him, bless you! yes indeed! And though Siward continued not to offer his hand, Major Belwether meant to have it, bless your heart! And he fussed and fussed and beamed cordiality until he secured it in his plump white fingers and pressed it effusively.
There was something about his soft, warm hands which had always reminded Siward of the temperature and texture of a newly hatched bird. It had been some time since he had shaken hands with Major Belwether; it was apparent that the bird had not aged any.
“And now for the shooting!” said the Major with an arch smile. “Now for the stag at bay and the winding horn—
'Where sleeps the moon On Mona's rill—'
Eh, Siward?
'And here's to the hound With his nose upon the ground—'