“A mere trifle,” said my neighbor “on the right,” with his most suave air and a twinkle in his eye as he finished the claret.  “Just a shot or two in the left arm—­a mere nothing, when one considers the dangers the whole line were incurring.”

“You were shot in the arm, Sir Antony?” I exclaimed, suddenly, feeling a great dislike to Mr. Dodd.  “Oh, but people should not shoot if they are so careless, surely!”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said Mr. Dodd, huffily.  “I am not careless.  I have been shooting now for a matter of five years and only twice before have hit any one.”

“You have had the devil’s own luck!” said Antony, beginning the Burgundy.

“You may call it luck, sir,” said Mr. Dodd, “but I think a man wants a bit of judgment, too, to shoot, and I always try to remember where my neighbors stand.  But, I must admit, with pheasant shooting in a wood it is more difficult.  It was getting a little excited with a rabbit which caused the last accident I had.”

Antony finished the Burgundy.

“Are you going to walk with us afterwards, Comtesse?” he asked me, presently, in a low voice, his eyes still twinkling; “because, if so, I advise you to fortify your nerve with a little orange brandy I see they are handing now,” and he began the champagne.

“Oh, I am so sorry about the whole thing.  I think it is perfectly dreadful,” I said, “and—­and I do hope you are not really hurt.”

He showed me his wrist.  His silk shirt-sleeve was wet with blood, and his arm also had streaks on it, and just under the skin were two or three small, black lumps.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” I said, and my voice trembled.  I felt I wanted to take his arm and wash the blood off, and caress it, and tell him how it grieved me that he should be wounded—­and by these people, too.  I would like to have shot them all.

“Don’t look so distressed, Comtesse,” he said.  “It does not hurt a bit, and the whole thing amuses me.  A very original character, Mr. Dodd,” and he finished the champagne.

Augustus walked with me after lunch for a little when we started.  He was in a furious temper at the non-slaughter of the partridges.

“By Jove! next year,” he said, “I’ll clear out the whole boiling, whether the mater likes it or no, and have some of the people we met at Harley.  Thornhirst is the only man who has killed anything great, though Wakely and Bush did a fair share.”

I told him how dreadful I thought the accident had been.

“Good thing it was not me he shot,” said Augustus.  “I’d have fired back.  But the part I mind the most is the miserable bag.  Wilks is mad.  We both wanted the record to go to the field; and what can we do?  Only thirty-two brace up to luncheon!”

I soothed him as well as I could.

Mrs. Dodd was puffing behind us.  She had insisted upon following with the guns, although Lady Wakely and the two other elderly women had driven back to Ledstone.