The poor old colonel fell to a more frequent repetition of the 'Well!'
with which he had been unconsciously expressing his perplexed mind in the
kennels and through the covers during the day. None of the gentlemen
went to dress. Mr. Culbrett was indoors conversing with Rosamund
Culling.

'What's come to them?' the colonel asked of Mr. Romfrey, who said
shrugging, 'Something wrong with one of the horses.' It had happened to
him on one occasion to set foot in the hole of a baked hedgehog that had
furnished a repast, not without succulence, to some shepherd of the
downs. Such a case might have recurred; it was more likely to cause an
upset at a walk than at a gallop: or perhaps a shoe had been cast; and
young people break no bones at a walking fall; ten to one if they do at
their top speed. Horses manage to kill their seniors for them: the young
are exempt from accident.

Colonel Halkett nodded and sighed: 'I daresay they're safe. It's that
man Shrapnel's letter--that letter, Romfrey! A private letter, I know;
but I've not heard Nevil disown the opinions expressed in it. I submit.
It's no use resisting. I treat my daughter as a woman capable of judging
for herself. I repeat, I submit. I haven't a word against Nevil except
on the score of his politics. I like him. All I have to say is, I don't
approve of a republican and a sceptic for my son-in-law. I yield to you,
and my daughter, if she . . . !'

'I think she does, colonel. Marriage 'll cure the fellow. Nevil will
slough his craze. Off! old coat. Cissy will drive him in strings.
"My wife!" I hear him.' Mr. Romfrey laughed quietly. 'It's all "my
country," now. The dog'll be uxorious. He wants fixing; nothing worse.'