Short Fiction

some character in history; then they come back and act him, and the girls have to guess who it’s meant for.”

“I’m afraid I must be going,” said Rollo to his hostess.

“Your carriage won’t be here for another twenty minutes,” said Mrs. Jallatt.

“It’s such a fine evening I think I’ll walk and meet it.”

“It’s raining rather steadily at present. You’ve just time to play that historical game.”

“We haven’t heard Dolores recite,” said Rollo desperately; as soon as he had said it he realised his mistake. Confronted with the alternative of “Locksley Hall,” public opinion declared unanimously for the history game.

Rollo played his last card. In an undertone meant apparently for the Wrotsley boy, but carefully pitched to reach Agnes, he observed⁠—

“All right, old man; we’ll go and finish those chocolates we left in the library.”

“I think it’s only fair that the girls should take their turn in going out,” exclaimed Agnes briskly. She was great on fairness.

“Nonsense,” said the others; “there are too many of us.”

“Well, four of us can go. I’ll be one of them.”

And Agnes darted off towards the library, followed by three less eager damsels.

Rollo sank into a chair and smiled ever so faintly at the Wrotsleys, just a momentary baring of the teeth; an otter, escaping from the fangs of the hounds into the safety of a deep pool, might have given a similar demonstration of feelings.

From the library came the sound of moving furniture. Agnes was leaving nothing unturned in her quest for the mythical chocolates. And then came a more blessed sound, wheels crunching wet gravel.

“It has been a most enjoyable evening,” said Rollo to his hostess.

The Bag

“The Major is coming in to tea,” said Mrs. Hoopington to her niece. “He’s just gone round to the stables with his horse. Be as bright and lively as you can; the poor man’s got a fit of the glooms.”

Major Pallaby was a victim of circumstances, over which he had no control, and of his temper, over which he had very little. He had taken on the Mastership of the Pexdale Hounds in succession to a highly popular man who had fallen foul of his committee, and the Major found himself confronted with the overt hostility of at least half the hunt, while his lack of tact and amiability had done much to alienate the remainder. Hence subscriptions were beginning to fall off, foxes grew provokingly scarcer, and wire obtruded itself with increasing frequency. The Major could plead reasonable excuse for his fit of the glooms.

In ranging herself as a partisan on the side of Major Pallaby Mrs. Hoopington had been largely influenced by the fact that she had made up her mind to marry him at an early date. Against his notorious bad temper she set his three thousand a year, and his prospective succession to a baronetcy gave a casting vote in his favour. The Major’s plans on the subject of matrimony were not at present in such an advanced stage as Mrs. Hoopington’s, but he was beginning to find his way over to Hoopington Hall with a frequency that was already being commented on.

“He had a wretchedly thin field out again yesterday,” said Mrs. Hoopington. “Why you didn’t bring one or two hunting men down with you, instead of that stupid Russian boy, I can’t think.”

“Vladimir isn’t stupid,” protested her niece; “he’s one of the most amusing boys I ever met. Just compare him for a moment with some of your heavy hunting men⁠—”

“Anyhow, my dear Norah, he can’t ride.”

“Russians never can; but he shoots.”

“Yes; and what does he shoot? Yesterday he brought home a woodpecker in his game-bag.”

“But he’d shot three pheasants and some rabbits as well.”

“That’s no excuse for including a woodpecker in his game-bag.”

“Foreigners go in for mixed bags more than we do. A grand duke pots a vulture just as seriously as we should stalk a bustard. Anyhow, I’ve explained to Vladimir that certain birds are beneath his dignity as a sportsman. And as he’s only nineteen, of course, his dignity is a sure thing to appeal to.”

Mrs. Hoopington sniffed. Most people with whom Vladimir came in contact found his high spirits infectious, but his present hostess was guaranteed immune against infection of that sort.

“I hear him coming in now,” she observed. “I shall go and get ready for tea. We’re going to have it here in the hall. Entertain the Major if he comes in before I’m down, and, above all, be bright.”

Norah was dependent on her aunt’s good graces for many little things that made life worth living, and she was conscious of a feeling of discomfiture because the Russian youth whom she had brought down as a welcome element of change in the country-house routine was not making a good impression. That young gentleman, however, was supremely unconscious of any shortcomings, and burst into the hall, tired, and less sprucely groomed than usual, but distinctly radiant. His game-bag looked comfortably full.

“Guess what I have shot,” he demanded.

“Pheasants, wood pigeons, rabbits,” hazarded Norah.

“No; a large beast; I don’t know what you call it in English. Brown, with a darkish tail.” Norah changed colour.

“Does it live in a tree and eat nuts?” she asked, hoping that the use of the adjective “large” might be an exaggeration.

Vladimir laughed.

“Oh no; not a biyelka.”

“Does it swim and eat fish?” asked Norah, with a fervent prayer in her heart that it might turn out to be an otter.

“No,” said Vladimir, busy with the straps of his game-bag; “it lives in the woods, and eats rabbits and chickens.”

Norah sat down suddenly, and hid her face in her hands.

“Merciful Heaven!” she wailed; “he’s shot a fox!”

Vladimir looked up at her in consternation. In a torrent of agitated words she tried to explain the horror of the situation. The boy understood nothing, but was thoroughly alarmed.

“Hide it, hide it!” said Norah frantically, pointing to the still unopened bag. “My aunt and the Major will be here in a moment. Throw