"I was so sorry to miss you at dinner last evening,—I was dining at Mrs. Belhomme's. Mrs. Fallow-Deer told me how you amused them all, and has promised to ask you again very soon for my special benefit. Do you think you will like Newport?"
"I know I shall; in fact, I do. I am almost at home here already."
"You will feel yourself quite at home this afternoon, I fancy, for it is the first hunt of the season. Of course you are going?"
"If you are, Miss Carleton, I am, of course. But what sort of a hunt is it,—a butterfly hunt? Considering the season, I suppose the game must have golden wings."
"Butterflies? Oh no! we are not cannibals at Newport, and do not kill our kind. The hunt is a real hunt as far as the prey is concerned. The only sham part of it is the scent, which is that of a red herring dragged across the fields by a huntsman on the morning of the meet."
