It was a long and not
very easy shot, but the pigeon came whirling down through the tranches
with a broken pinion.
"You are unlucky in your selection, Captain Forrester," the successful
shot remarked, coolly. "You might have won a heavy stake by laying the
same odds all day."
"It serves you right," interposed Guy, "for speaking to a man on his
shot. Don't you remember quarreling with me the other day for doing so,
Charley?"
Charley's face of perplexity and disgust was irresistible. We all
laughed. "What a _guignon_ I have," he said. "Mr. Raymond, I believe you
were in the robbery."
"Not I," was the answer. "I was as much surprised as any one. I think,"
he went on, lowering his tone, "Guy is right; he changed his aim, as you
spoke, involuntarily, or he _must_ have missed."
Then we turned homeward through the twilight.
I do not know if the reminiscence of his lost "pony" was rankling in
Forrester's mind, or if he was only affected by the presence of Sir
Henry Fallowfield--an immoral Upas, under whose shadow the most
flourishing of good resolutions were apt to wither and die; but
certainly, after dinner, he broke through the cautious reserve which he
had always in public maintained toward Miss Raymond since Bruce's
arrival.
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