His Grace — page 143: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

HIS GRACE. 137 this season?” inquired Miss St. George blandly. “Once only, and that was by invitation. The draw, as you know, resulted inafind. Imake no complaints ; I merely wonder what the foxhunters have to complain about. After this, perhaps I may be permitted to shoot my own pheasants.” Then Hurstbourne joined us and must needs put his oar in. Doubtless he thought his cousin was in the wrong, and doubtless his cousin was in the wrong ; but the occasion was hardly a propitious one for saying so, and he got the worst of the argument. Miss St. George, who promptly retired from the fray, looked on at it with—as I surmised—the calm and amused indif- ference of one who was aware that it was being fought upon a false issue. Not on account of foxes or pheas- ants was Hurstbourne becoming red in the face and Mr. Gascoigne frigidly sarcastic; there was quite another bone of contention between them, and the bone knew that as well as I did. Possibly Lady Dev- erell, who continued to blow her nose noisily in the background, knew it too. I can’s tell whether Miss St. George enjoyed herself or not during dinner; very likely she did. But I am quite sure that not one of those who sat at meat with her was happy. We got off the subject of sport, after a time, and attacked that of politics—which was scarce- ly a change for the better. Mr. Gascoigne chose to identify his guest with his late opponent and to assume that the former professed all the radical views enter- tained by the latter. Now, it was a very simple mat- ter to make fun of those views in a quiet, courteous way, and a still simpler matter to point out the absurd- ity of their being held by a duke. Poor Hurstbourne Gomicboo (ele)