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looking rather pinched with the cold, he took me
indoors and ordered a large glass of hot milk, which I
should be jolly glad of, he said, before the day was out.
The inn-parlour smelt of stale liquor, but 1 enjoyed
my glass of milk.

The meet itself was an intensified rendering of my
initiatory one. I was awed by my consciousness of
having come twelve miles from home. And the scene
was made significant by the phrase "one of their best
meets", in the light of that phrase everything ap-
peared a little larger than life: voices seemed louder,
coats a more raucous red, and the entire atmosphere
more acute with imminent jeopardy than at Finchurst
Green. Hard-bitten hunting men rattled up in gigs,
peeled off their outer coverings, and came straddling
along the crowded lane to look for their nags. Having
found them, they spoke in low tones to the groom and
swung themselves importantly into the saddle as
though there were indeed some desperate business on
hand. . . .

Heron's Gate was a featureless wayside inn at the
foot of a green knoll, I had not yet caught a glimpse
of Denis when the procession moved away toward
Park Wood, but I looked upward and identified the
bulky black Windmill, which seemed to greet me with
a friendly wave of its sails, as much as to say, "Here I
am, you see—a lot bigger than they marked me on the
map!" The Windmill consoled me; it seemed less
inhuman, in its own way, than the brusque and
bristling riders around me. When we turned off the
road and got on to a sodden tussocked field, they all
began to be in a hurry; their horses bucked and
snorted and shook their heads as they shot past me—
the riders calling out to one another with uncouth
matutinal jocularities.