Then Marion Page took possession of him so exclusively, so calmly, that something in her cool certainty vaguely irritated Sylvia, who had never liked her. Besides, the girl showed too plainly her indifference to other people; which other people seldom find amusing.
“Stephen,” called out Alderdene, anxiously counting the web loops in his khaki vest, “what do you call fair shooting at these damnable ruffed grouse? You needn't be civil about it, you know.”
“Five shells to a bird is good shooting,” answered Siward. “Don't you think so, Miss Page?”
“You have a better score, Mr. Siward,” said Marion Page with a hostile glance at Alderdene, who had not made good.
“That was chance—and this year's birds. I've taken ten shells to an old drummer in hard wood or short pines.” He smiled to himself, adding: “A drove of six in the open got off scot free a little while ago. Miss Landis saw it.”
That he was inclined to turn it all to banter relieved her at once. “It was pitiable,” she nodded gravely to Marion; “his nerve left him when they made such a din in the briers.”
Miss Page glanced at her indifferently.
“What I need is practice like the chasseurs of Tarascon,” admitted Siward.
“I willingly offer my hat, monsieur,” said Sylvia.
Marion Page, impatient to start, had turned her tailor-made back to the company, and was instructing his crestfallen lordship very plainly: “You fire too quickly, Blinky; two seconds is what you must count when a grouse flushes. You must say 'Mark! Right!' or 'Mark! Left! Bang!'”