"Yes, it is, but I want to know."
"Well," said Harold, "I suppose that I am pretty fair, that is at
rough shooting; I never had much practice at driven birds and that
kind of sport."
"I am glad of it."
"Why, it does not much matter. One goes out shooting for the sport of
the thing."
"Yes, I know, but Mr. Edward Cossey," and she shrank visibly as she
uttered the name, "is coming, and he is a /very/ good shot and /very/
conceited about it. I want you to beat him if you can--will you try?"
"Well," said Harold, "I don't at all like shooting against a man. It
is not sportsmanlike, you know; and, besides, if Mr. Cossey is a crack
shot, I daresay that I shall be nowhere; but I will shoot as well as I
can."
"Do you know, it is very feminine, but I would give anything to see
you beat him?" and she nodded and laughed, whereupon Harold Quaritch
vowed in his heart that if it in him lay he would not disappoint her.
At that moment Edward Cossey's fast trotting horse drew up at the door
with a prodigious crunching of gravel, and Edward himself entered,
looking very handsome and rather pale. He was admirably dressed, that
is to say, his shooting clothes were beautifully made and very new-
looking, and so were his boots, and so was his hat, and so were his
hammerless guns, of which he brought a pair.
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