"Oh, no," she said, "he never went out but that once, and then he nearly
killed himself, according to his own account. We never quite knew what
happened; there was some dark mystery that Roderick wouldn't explain;
and, you know, Lord Fareborough himself is rather short-tempered. He
ought not to have gone out--a man who has imagined himself into that
hypochondriacal state. However, it has given him an excuse for thinking
himself a greater invalid than ever; and he has got it into his head now
that we all of us persuaded him to try a day's stalking--a conspiracy,
as it were, to murder him. There was some accident at one of the fords,
I believe. He came home early. I never heard of his having fired at a
stag at all." And then she added, with a smile. "Mr. Moore, what made
you send me such a lot of salmon-flies?"
"Oh, well," he said, "I thought you ought to have a good stock." How
could he tell her of his vague hope that the Jock Scotts and Blue
Doctors might serve for a long time to recall him to her memory?
"I suppose you have got the stag's head by now?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, indeed; and tremendously proud of it I am," he responded,
eagerly.
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