The Tarnside pheasants live on the country." "I expect that really means they live on the farmers!" Osborn frowned.

It was Jardine's habit to make stupid remarks like that; Osborn wondered whether the fellow thought them smart.
"The farmers knew my rules when they signed the lease," he said.

"Anyhow, pheasants do much less damage than ground game, and I don't think my tenants have left a hare in the dale." Jardine began to talk about something else, and no more was said about Osborn's grievances until the party met on the new terrace in the twilight.

The tarn glimmered with faint reflections from the west, but thin mist drifted across the pastures, and the hills rose, vague and black, against the sky, in which a half moon shone.

Osborn, sitting at the top of the shallow steps that went down to the lawn, grumbled to his wife about the day's shooting.
"I don't think I'm an exacting landlord," he remarked.