"Then let the dogs have it."
"No. I like seeing friends enjoy it."
"Then eat it yourself."
"I can't. It doesn't agree with me in the morning."
Maud made peace by accepting the dish. Mrs. Selwyn cracked an egg. Then—then only—Selwyn uncovered the rump steak.
"By Jove!" he said. "I'm sorry. There was steak here had anyone wanted it. I am afraid I'm rather late for you now."
He put the fork gently and deeply into the juicy square of meat, and lifted it bodily on to his plate—regretfully, as though only good manners persuaded him to choose the untasted dish. Next, collecting round him the necessaries for an ample breakfast, he settled to his task.
Breakfast over, Selwyn decided on a stroll. It was too late in the day for a shot, and he could take a turn with a gun in the evening. A stroll was better than hanging about a house trying to amuse two women. He visited the back again and loosed his bodyguard. The mangy pointer in its dotage sprang heavily upon him in joyous good morning, and tested the weight of his stick. Gripper led the van. The momentary irritation of breakfast had gone, and Selwyn felt benign with all the world.
Pipe in mouth, stick in hand, he took the red road which turns left-handed from the office door. Mrs. Boulder relinquished household matters to watch him go by. The sun was rising in the sky, and when he drew opposite the Horrington humpy, he began to tell himself that a man was looking for trouble who went for walks in this country. Mr. Horrington stood in his doorway, gently musing after his morning custom before setting forth to win the daily bread; and Selwyn, from the roadway, sent him a cheerful salute, which brought him along the path to the road.
"Good day, Mr. Selwyn. You are abroad early this morning. Which way are you going?"