"Your loving
"Kate.
"P.S. When shall you be in town? Come and see me."
She folded and enclosed and addressed the letter; but she did not give it to the waiter to post. It was of too great moment for that. She put it in her pocket; she would herself see it safely despatched.
Well, for a boy, Jim had not done so badly; though, to be sure, his sister did not seem to pay much attention to these delicacies. Her brain was too busy. As she trifled with this thing or that, or sipped a little wine, she said,
"Jim, I know what the dream of your life is—it's to go to a big pheasant-shoot."
"Oh, is it?" he said, with the scorn born of superior knowledge. "Not much. I've tried my hand at pheasants. I know what they are. It's all very well for those fellows in the papers to talk about the easy shooting—the slaughter—the tame birds—and all that bosh; fellows who couldn't hit a stuffed cockatoo at twenty yards. No, thanks; I know what pheasants are—the beasts!"
"Well, what kind of shooting would you really like?" said this indulgent sister.
"I'll tell you," he said, with his face brightening. "I should like to have the run of a good rabbit-warren, and to be allowed to wander about entirely by myself, with a gun and a spaniel. No keeper looking on and worrying and criticising—that's my idea."
"All right," said she, "I think I can promise you that."