the talk of the forthcoming Elections, hardly to be avoided at his table,
seemed a puerile distraction. Ware the foe of his partridges and
pheasants, be it man or vermin! The name of Shrapnel was frequently on
the tongue of Captain Baskelett. Rosamund heard him, in her room, and
his derisive shouts of laughter over it. Cecil was a fine shot, quite as
fond of the pastime as his uncle, and always in favour with him while
sport stalked the land. He was in gallant spirits, and Rosamund,
brooding over Nevil's fortunes, and sitting much alone, as she did when
there were guests in the house, gave way to her previous apprehensions.
She touched on them to Mr. Stukely Culbrett, her husband's old friend,
one of those happy men who enjoy perceptions without opinions, and are
not born to administer comfort to other than themselves. As far as she
could gather, he fancied Nevil Beauchamp was in danger of something, but
he delivered his mind only upon circumstances and characters: Nevil
risked his luck, Cecil knew his game, Everard Romfrey was the staunchest
of mankind: Stukely had nothing further to say regarding the situation.
She asked him what he thought, and he smiled. Could a reasonable head
venture to think anything in particular? He repeated the amazed, 'You
don't say so' of Colonel Halkett, on hearing the name of the new Liberal
candidate for Bevisham at the dinner-table, together with some of Cecil's
waggish embroidery upon the theme.

Rosamund exclaimed angrily, 'Oh! if I had been there he would not have
dared.'

'Why not be there?' said Stukely. 'You have had your choice for a number
of years.'

She shook her head, reddening.