Lord Hartington told me in the course of our conversation at
supper that Lady Grosvenor [Footnote: The Countess of Grosvenor.]
was by far the most dangerous syren in London and that he would
not answer for any man keeping his head or his heart when with
her, to which I entirely agreed.
When the London season came to an end we all went up to Glen.
Here I must retrace my steps.
In the winter of 1880 I went to stay with my sister, Lucy Graham
Smith, in Wiltshire.
I was going out hunting for the first time, never having seen a
fox, a hound or a fence in my life; my heart beat as my sisters
superintending my toilette put the last hair-pin into a crinkly
knot of hair; I pulled on my top-boots and, running down to the
front door, found Ribblesdale, who was mounting me, waiting to
drive me to the meet. Hounds met at Christian Malford station.
Not knowing that with the Duke of Beaufort's hounds every one wore
blue and buff, I was disappointed at the appearance of the field.
No one has ever suggested that a touch of navy blue improves a
landscape; and, although I had never been out hunting before, I
had looked forward to seeing scarlet coats.
We moved off, jostling each other as thick as sardines, to draw
the nearest cover. My mount was peacocking on the grass when
suddenly we heard a "Halloa!" and the whole field went hammering
like John Gilpin down the hard high road.
Plunging through a gap, I dashed into the open country. Storm
flung herself up to the stars over the first fence and I found
myself seated on the wettest of wet ground, angry but unhurt; all
the stragglers--more especially the funkers--agreeably diverted
from pursuing the hunt, galloped off to catch my horse.
Pages:
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105