"Nerves are bad enough,"--I said.

"Nerves can be conquered,"--she answered, with a bright smile of
wholesome conviction--"Nerves are generally--well!--just
selfishness!"

There was some truth in this, but we did not argue the point
further. We were too much engrossed with the interests of our
journey north, and with the entertainment provided for us by our
fellow-travellers. The train for Edinburgh and Glasgow was crowded
with men of that particular social class who find grouse-shooting an
intelligent way of using their brain and muscle, and gun-cases
cumbered the ground in every corner. It wanted yet several days to
the famous Twelfth of August, but the weather was so exceptionally
fine and brilliant that the exodus from town had begun earlier than
was actually necessary for the purposes of slaughter. Francesca and
I studied the faces and figures of our companions with lively and
unabated interest. We had a reserved compartment to ourselves, and
from its secluded privacy we watched the restless pacing up and down
in the adjacent corridor of sundry male creatures who seemed to have
nothing whatever to think about but the day's newspaper, and nothing
to do but smoke.

"I am sure," said Francesca, suddenly--"that in the beginning of
creation we were all beasts and birds of prey, eating each other up
and tearing each other to pieces. The love of prey is in us still."

"Not in you, surely?" I queried, with a smile.