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nymphs, dashing sparks, and diamonded dowagers
of the Hunt.)

"When did you last give a ball at Folesford, Sir
Jocelyn?" I politely asked him, gazing bashfully at
one of his dangling top-boots.

aWe have no record [sniff] of any ball at Folesford
[sniff]/3 was his rejoinder.

Why there had never been any balls at Folesford
I am still at a loss to understand. But the fact re-
mained. It was [sniff] so. ... And Sir Jocelyn as
I have taken trouble to indicate, was the king of the
Saturday country.


ANYTHING LIKE an adequate inventory of the
Packlestone subscribers is beyond the scope of
my narrative—pleasant though it would be to revive
so many estimable and animated equestrians. Warm-
hearted memory creates a crowded gathering when
one has both the dead and the living to draw upon.
I have no doubt that the Packlestone. field (and
its similitude elsewhere) still survives In its main
characteristics. Nevertheless, I adhere protectively
to my sense of its uniqueness as it was when I was a
unit in its hurry of hoofs and covert-side chatter. •• I
can believe in the present-day existence of intrepid
young ladies, such as were the two Miss Amingtons,
who would have perished rather than see someone
else jump a big fence without having, a cut at it
themselves on their game and not over-sound horses.
But are there still, such veterans as those who went
so well when I was there to watch them? Grey-
bearded Squire Wingfield was over seventy, but he