school, she had followed the hunt with pleasant excitement, and was now
rather surprised to find the sport had lost its zest.

The odds against the otter were too great, although it had for some hours
baffled men who knew the river, and well-trained dogs. It had stolen up
shallow rapids, slipping between the watchers' legs, dived under swimming
dogs, made bold dashes along the bank, and hidden in belts of reeds. Its
capture had often looked certain and yet it had escaped. At first Grace
had noticed the animal's confidence, beauty of form, and strength; but it
had gradually got slack, hesitating, and limp. Now, when it lurked,
half-drowned, in the depths of the pool while its pitiless enemies waited
for it to come up to breathe, she began to wish it would get away.

Thorn, the master of the hounds, was talking to his huntsman not far
off. He was a friend of Osborn's, and Grace had once thought him a
dashing and accomplished man of the world, but had recently, for no
obvious reason, felt antagonistic. Alan was not as clever as she had
imagined; he was smart, sometimes cheaply smart, which was another
thing. Then he was beginning to get fat, and she vaguely shrank from the
way he now and then looked at her. On the whole, it was a relief to note
that he was occupied.

For a few moments Grace let her eyes wander up the dale to the crags
where the force leaped down from the red moor at Malton Head. Belts of
dry bent-grass shone like gold and mossy patches glimmered luminously
green. The fall looked like white lace drawn across the stones. A streak
of mist touched the lofty crag, and above it a soft white cloud trailed
across the sky. Then she turned as her brother spoke.

"Alan has given us a good hunt and means to make a kill. He's rather a