like fortifications, to command the face of the slope and the dips on either side.  This was always the last beat—­in this moor—­before lunch; and lunch itself, she knew, would be waiting on the other side of the hill.  Occasionally as she watched, she saw a slight movement behind this or that butt—­no more—­and the only evidence of human beings, beside the beaters, lay in the faint wreath of all but invisible smoke that followed the reports, coming now quicker and quicker, as the grouse took alarm.  Once with a noise like a badly ignited rocket, there burst over the curve before her a flying brown thing, that, screaming with terrified exultation, whirred within twenty yards of her head and vanished into silence. (One cocked ear of the mare bent back to see if the rocket were returning or not.)

Jenny’s meditations became more philosophical than ever as she looked.  She found herself wondering how much free choice the grouse—­if they were capable themselves of philosophizing—­would imagine themselves to possess in the face of this noisy but insidious death.  She reminded herself that every shred of instinct and experience that each furious little head contained bade the owner of it to fly as fast and straight as possible, in squawking company with as many friends as possible, away from those horrible personages in green and silver with the agitating red flags, and up that quiet slope which, at the worst, only emitted sudden noises.  A reflective grouse would perhaps (and two out of three did) consider that he could fly faster and be sooner hidden from the green men with red flags, if he slid crosswise down the valleys on either side.  But—­Jenny observed—­that was already calculated by these human enemies, and butts (like angels’ swords) commanded even these approaches too.

It was obvious, then, that however great might be the illusion of free choice, in reality there was none:  they were betrayed hopelessly by the very instincts intended to safeguard them; practical common-sense, in this case, at least, led them straight into the jaws of death.  A little originality and impulsiveness would render them immortal so far as guns were concerned....

Yes; but there was one who had been original, who had actually preferred to fly straight past a monster in green on a gray mare rather than to face the peaceful but deathly slopes; and he had escaped.  But obviously he was an exception.  Originality in grouse—­

At this point the mare breathed slowly and contemptuously and advanced a delicate, impatient foot, having quite satisfied herself that danger was no longer imminent; and Jenny became aware she was thinking nonsense.

* * * * *

There were a number of unimportant but well-dressed persons at lunch, with most of whom Jenny was acquainted.  These extended themselves on the ground and said the right things one after another; and all began with long drinks, and all ended with heavy meals.  There were two other women whom she knew slightly, who had driven up half an hour before.  Everything was quite perfect—­down even to hot grilled grouse that emerged from emblazoned silver boxes, and hot black coffee poured from “Thermos” flasks.  Jenny asked intelligent questions and made herself agreeable.