Meadows assented, but rather languidly. The day was extremely hot; he
was tired, moreover, by a long walk with the guns the day before, and by
conversation after dinner, led by Lady Dunstable, which had lasted up to
nearly one o'clock in the morning. The talk had been brilliant, no
doubt. Meadows, however, did not feel that he had come off very well in
it. His hostess had deliberately pitted him against two of the ablest
men in England, and he was well aware that he had disappointed her. Lady
Dunstable had a way of behaving to her favourite author or artist of the
moment as though she were the fancier and he the cock. She fought him
against the other people's cocks with astonishing zeal and passion; and
whenever he failed to kill, or lost too many feathers in the process,
her annoyance was evident.

Meadows was in truth becoming a little tired of her dictation, although
it was only ten days since he had arrived under her roof. There was a
large amount of lethargy combined with his ability; and he hated to be
obliged to live at any pace but his own. But Rachel Dunstable was an
imperious friend, never tired herself, apparently, either in mind or
body; and those who could not walk, eat, and talk to please her were apt
to know it. Her opinions too, both political and literary, were in some
directions extremely violent; and though, in general, argument and
contradiction gave her pleasure, she had her days and moods, and Meadows
had already suffered occasional sets-down, of a kind to which he was not
accustomed.

But if he was--just a little--out of love with his new friend, in all
other respects he was enjoying himself enormously. The long days on the
moors, the luxurious life indoors, the changing and generally agreeable
company, all the thousand easements and pleasures that wealth brings
with it, the skilled service, the motors, the costly cigars, the