Young Mr. Foster, warmed by Sally’s genial slapdash manner, was losing a good deal of his shyness. In apology for not being able to talk about hunting or shooting he explained that he had been a stupid delicate kind of boy and had had to live abroad a great deal. On being pressed by Sally as to what he did for a crust, he said even more apologetically that he worked with a firm of picture dealers.
‘Good Lord! Then I suppose you know all about the Old Masters and things,’ said Sally, waving her hand at the Mid-Victorian paintings with which Lord Pomfret’s father had completed the furnishing of the yellow drawing-room.
Mr. Foster said he did.
‘I think they’re ghastly myself,’ said Sally. ‘I’ll tell you what I like; those rum old birds in the dining-room. That’s your game.’
‘Yes, the ones
