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Frederic, Harold, 1856-1898

"The Market-Place"

He had barely
time to shake perfunctorily the hand Thorpe offered him,
and utter an absent-minded "How are you this morning?"
To the valet, who hurried forward to open the outer door,
bearing his master's gun and a camp-stool, he said reproachfully,
"We are very late today, Barnes." They went out,
and began striding down the avenue of trees at such a pace
that the keeper and his following of small boys and dogs,
who joined them near the road, were forced into a trot
to keep up with it.
Thorpe had fancied, somehow, that a day's shooting would
afford exceptional opportunities for quiet and intimate
talk with his host, but he perceived very soon that this
was not to be the case. They walked together for half
a mile, it is true, along a rural bye-road first and then
across some fields, but the party was close at their heels,
and Plowden walked so fast that conversation of any sort,
save an occasional remark about the birds and the
covers between him and the keeper, was impracticable.
The Hon. Balder suddenly turned up in the landscape,
leaning against a gate set in a hedgerow, and their course
was deflected toward him, but even when they came up to him,
the expedition seemed to gain nothing of a social character.
The few curt words that were exchanged, as they halted
here to distribute cartridges and hold brief consultation,
bore exclusively upon the subject in hand.


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