Connie looked, and there, sure enough, was a big black cat, stretched out grimly, with a bit of blood on it.

“Oh!” she said in repulsion.

“A poacher, your Ladyship,” said the man satirically.

She glanced at him angrily. “No wonder the child cried,” she said, “if you shot it when she was there. No wonder she cried!”

He looked into Connie’s eyes, laconic, contemptuous, not hiding his feelings. And again Connie flushed; she felt she had been making a scene, the man did not respect her.

“What is your name?” she said playfully to the child. “Won’t you tell me your name?”

Sniffs; then very affectedly in a piping voice; “Connie Mellors!”