"Rippin' stand that, by the wood. D'you remember your rockettin'
woodcock last year, Jerry?" "And the dear old Squire never touched
a feather! Did you, Squire?" "Dick--Dick! Bad dog!--come and do your
tricks. Trust-trust! Paid for! Isn't he rather a darling?"

On Mr. Pendyce's foot, or by the side of his chair, whence he could
see what was being eaten, sat the spaniel John, and now and then Mr.
Pendyce, taking a small portion of something between his finger and
thumb, would say:

"John!--Make a good breakfast, Sir James; I always say a
half-breakfasted man is no good!"

And Mrs. Pendyce, her eyebrows lifted, would look anxiously up and down
the table, murmuring: "Another cup, dear; let me see--are you sugar?"

When all had finished a silence fell, as if each sought to get away
from what he had been eating, as if each felt he had been engaged in an
unworthy practice; then Mr. Pendyce, finishing his last grape, wiped his
mouth.

"You've a quarter of an hour, gentlemen; we start at ten-fifteen."

Mrs. Pendyce, left seated with a vague, ironical smile, ate one mouthful
of her buttered toast, now very old and leathery, gave the rest to "the
dear dogs," and called:

"George! You want a new shooting tie, dear boy; that green one's quite
faded. I've been meaning to get some silks down for ages. Have you had
any news of your horse this morning?"