And why was it, when, in course of time, it became practicable to arrange a deer-stalking expedition for him, why was it that he voluntarily chose to encounter what Lord Rockminster had called the very extremes of fatigue and human misery?  He knew that he was about to undergo tortures of anxiety and privation; and, what was worse, he knew he was going to miss.  He had saturated his mind with gillies’ stories of capital shots who had completely lost their nerve on first catching sight of a stag.  The “buck-ague” was already upon him.  Not for him was there waiting away in these wilds some Muckle Hart of Ben More to gain a deathless fame from his rifle-bullet.  He was about to half-kill himself with the labors of a long and arduous expedition, and at the end of it he foresaw himself returning home defeated, dejected, in the deepest throes of mortification and chagrin.

And look what he was giving up.  Here was a whole houseful of charming women all ready to pet him and make much of him; and in their society he would be at home, dealing with things with which he was familiar.  Lady Sybil would be grateful to him if he helped her with the music she was arranging for “Alfred:  a Masque;” he could be of abundant service, too, to Lady Rosamund, who was now making individual studies for her large drawing of “Luncheon on the Twelfth;” though perhaps he could not lend much aid to Lady Adela, who was understood to be getting on very well with her new novel.  But, at all events, he would be in his own element; he would be among things that he understood; he would be no trembling ignoramus adventuring forth into the unknown.  And yet when, early in the morning, the old and sturdy pony was brought round to the door, and when the brown-bearded Roderick had shouldered the rifle and was ready to set forth, Lionel had little thought of surrendering his chance to any one else.

“I call this very shabby treatment,” his burly and good-humored host said, as he stood at the open door.  “When a man goes stalking, if there’s a pretty girl in the house, she ought to make her appearance and give him a little present for good luck.  It’s an understood thing; it’s an old custom; and yet there isn’t one of those lazy creatures down yet.”

“This is the best I can do for you, old fellow,” Percy Lestrange said, at the same moment.  “I can’t give you the flask, for my sister Georgie gave it to me; but I will lend it to you for the day; and it’s filled with an excellent mixture of curacoa and brandy.  You’ll want some comfort? and I don’t expect they’ll let you smoke.  What do you think of my crest?”

He handed the silver flask to Lionel, who found engraved on the side of it a merry and ingenious device, consisting of two briar-root pipes, crossed, and surrounded by a heraldic garter bearing the legend “Dulce est de-sip-ere in loco?” Was this Miss Georgia’s little joke?  Anyhow, he pocketed the flask with much gratitude; he guessed he might have need of it, if all tales were true.