If it were rage made her hook the stot, she was
laughing now--laughing so that when the beast stopped she could hardly
reel in the line. And old Robert--I thought he would have had a fit.
'Will I gaff him now, Miss Honnor?' he cried, as he came running along.
But the stot didn't mean to be gaffed. Off it set again; and Honnor
after it, until at last it caught the line in a birch-bush and broke it;
then, just as if nothing had happened, it began to graze, as usual. You
should have seen the game that began then--old Robert and Honnor trying
to get hold of the stot, so as to take the casting-line and the fly from
its mane--it isn't a mane, but you know--and the stot trying to butt
them whenever they came near. The end of it was that the beast shook
off the fly for itself, and old Robert found it; but I wonder whether it
were real rage that made Honnor Cunyngham hook the stot--"
"Of course not!" he said. "It was a mere piece of fun."
"It isn't fun when Lady Rosamund comes down-stairs in a bad
temper--after you gentlemen have left," remarked Miss Georgie,
significantly; and then she prattled away in this careful undertone.
"What horrid stuff that fantasia is; don't you think so? A mixture of
Wagner, and Chopin, and 'Home, Sweet Home.
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