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“My father, I’m afraid, paid terrific attention to those questions.”
“Yes, the last generation. But the only thing Parliament does that really gets the Public now, is the Budget. And no wonder; it all comes back to money.”
“Do you say that to Michael?”
“I don’t have to. Parliament now is just a taxing machine.”
“Surely it still makes laws?”
“Yes, my dear; but always after the event; it consolidates what has become public practice, or at least public feeling. It never initiates. How can it? That’s not a democratic function. If you want proof, look at the state of the country! It’s the last thing Parliament bothers about.”
“Who does initiate, then?”
“Whence doth the wind blow? Well, the draughts begin in the coulisses. Great places, the coulisses! Whom do you want to stand with when we get to the guns?”
“Lord Saxenden.”
Fleur gazed at her: “Not for his beaux jeux, and not for his beau titre. Why, then?”
“Because I’ve got to get at him about Hubert, and I haven’t much time.”
“I see. Well, I’ll give you a warning, my dear. Don’t take Saxenden at his face value. He’s an astute old fox, and not so old either. And if there is one thing he enjoys more than another, it’s his quid pro quo. Have you got a quid for him? He’ll want cash down.”
Di
“I shall do what I can. Uncle Lawrence has already given me some pointers.”
“‘Have a care; she’s fooling thee,’” hummed Fleur. “Well, I shall go to Michael; it makes him shoot better, and he wants it, poor dear. The Squire and Bart will be glad to do without us. Cicely, of course, will go to Charles; she’s still honey-moonish. That leaves Diana for the American.”
“And I hope,” said Di
“I should say nothing would. I forgot Adrian; he’ll have to sit on his stick and think about bones and Diana. Here we are. See? Through this gate. There’s Saxenden, they’ve given him the warm corner. Go round by that stile and come on him from behind. Michael will be jammed away at the end, he always gets the worst stand.”
She parted from Di
“Do you mind me, Lord Saxenden? I’ll be very quiet.”
The peer plucked at his cap, which had special peaks before and behind.
“Well, well!” he said. “H’m!”
“That sounds as if you did. Shall I go?”
“No, no! That’s all right. Can’t touch a feather today, anyway. You’ll bring me luck.”
Di
“That American chap has wiped my eye three times.”
“What bad taste!”
“He shoots at the most impossible birds, but, dash it, he hits ’em. All the birds I miss he gets on the horizon. Got the style of a poacher; lets everything go by, then gets a right and left about seventy yards behind him. Says he can’t see them when they sit on his foresight.”
“That’s fu
“Don’t believe he’s missed today,” added Lord Saxenden, resentfully. “I asked him why he shot so darned well, and he said: ‘Why! I’m used to shoot for the pot, where I can’t afford to miss.’”
“The ‘beat’s’ begi
The retriever began to pant slightly. Lord Saxenden grasped a gun; the keeper held the other ready.
“Covey to the left, my lord,” Di
“God bless my soul!” said Lord Saxenden: “What the deuce—!”
Di
The retriever uttered a little choked sound, panting horribly.
“The light,” she said, “must be terribly puzzling!”
“It’s not the light,” said Lord Saxenden, “it’s the liver!”
“Three birds coming straight, my lord.”
Bang!… Bang—bang! A bird jerked, crumpled, turned over and pitched four yards behind her. Something caught Di
Lord Saxenden said something inaudibly.
Lord Saxenden said the same word more inaudibly, and, opening her eyes, Di
“Hen pheasant, my lord!” warned the young keeper.
A hen pheasant passed over at a most reasonable height, as if aware that her time was not yet.
“H’m!” said Lord Saxenden, resting the butt on his bent knee.
“Covey to the right; too far, my lord!”
Several shots rang out, and beyond the hedge Di
“That’s a dead bird,” said the keeper, and Di
Shots rang out to the left.
“Damn!” said Lord Saxenden, “nothing comes my way.”
“Hare, my lord!” said the keeper, sharply. “Along the hedge!”
Lord Saxenden wheeled and raised his gun.
“Oh, no!” said Di
“Fetch it, boy!” said the keeper.
Di
“Blast!” muttered Lord Saxenden. “Tailored!” Through her eyelids Di
“That’s the lot, my lord.”
Lord Saxenden was handing over his gun, and three more birds lay beside the hare.
Rather ashamed of her new sensations, she rose, closed her shooting stick, and moved towards the stile. Regardless of the old convention, she crossed it and waited for him.
“Sorry I tailored that hare,” he said. “But I’ve been seeing spots all day. Do you ever see spots?”
“No. Stars once in a way. A hare’s crying is dreadful, isn’t it?”
“I agree—never liked it.”
“Once when we were having a picnic I saw a hare sitting up behind us like a dog—and the sun through its ears all pink. I’ve always liked hares since.”
“They’re not a sporting shot,” admitted Lord Saxenden; “personally I prefer ’em roast to jugged.”
Di
‘Now’s my chance,’ she thought.
“Do you ever tell Americans that they won the war, Lord Saxenden?”