'I hope so.'
'You must hunt tomorrow. Indeed there is nothing else to do.
Chiltern has taken such a dislike to shooting-men, that he won't
shoot pheasants himself. We don't hunt on Wednesdays or Sundays,
and then everybody lies in bed. Here is Mr Maule, he lies in bed
on other mornings as well, and spend the rest of his day riding
about the country looking for the hounds.
'Does he ever find them?'
'What did become of you all today?' said Mr Maule, as he took his
place at the dinner-table. 'You can't have drawn any of the
coverts regularly.'
'Then we found our foxes without drawing them,' said the master.
'We chopped one at Bromley's,' said Mr Spooner.
'I went there.'
'Then you ought to have known better,' said Mrs Spooner. 'When a
man loses the hounds in that country, he ought to go direct to
Brackett's Wood. If you had come on to Brackett's Wood, you'd have
seen as good a thirty-two minutes as ever you wished to ride.'
When the ladies went out of the room Mrs Spooner gave a parting
word of advice to her husband, and to the host.
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