Then came a rare run for five sweet miles--down a long valley--over
quick-set hedges, with stiffish streams--another hill--a great combe--
a lovely valley stretching out--a swerve to the right--over a gate--
and the brush got at a farmhouse door.

Surely, he had seen it all; but what kink of the brain was it that the
men wore flowing wigs and immense boot-legs, and sported lace in the
hunting-field? And why did he see within that picture another of two
ladies and a gentleman hawking?

He was roused from his dream by hearing the huntsman say in a quizzical
voice:

"How do you like the dogs, sir?"

To his last day Lugley, the huntsman, remembered the slow look of cold
surprise, of masterful malice, scathing him from head to foot. The words
that followed the look, simple as they were, drove home the naked
reproof:

"What is your name, my man?"

"Lugley, sir."

"Lugley! Lugley! H'm! Well, Lugley, I like the hounds better than
I like you. Who is Master of the Hounds, Lugley?"

"Captain Maudsley, sir."

"Just so. You are satisfied with your place, Lugley?"