I'm sorry; I don't like to walk in wet shoes ...

even to gain your approval." And, as the keeper came splashing across the shallows: "Miles, you may carry my gun.

I shall not need it any longer--" The upward roar of a bevey of grouse drowned her voice; poor Sagamore, pointing madly in the blackberry thicket all unperceived, cast a dismayed glance aloft where the sunlit air quivered under the winnowing rush of heavy wings.

Siward flung up his gun, heading a big quartering bird; steadily the glittering barrels swept in the arc of fire, hesitated, wavered; then the possibility passed; the young fellow lowered the gun, slowly, gravely; stood a moment motionless with bent head until the rising colour in his face had faded.
And that was all, for a while.

The astonished and disgusted keeper stared into the thicket; the dog lay quivering, impatient for signal.
Sylvia's heart, which had seemed to stop with her voice, silenced in the gusty thunder of heavy wings, began beating too fast.