Blake's Burden by Harold Bindloss

On a dark November morning when a blustering wind drove the rain against the windows Thomas Foster sat stripping the lock of a favourite gun in the room he called his study at Hazlehurst in Shropshire. The shelves on the handsome panelled walls contained a few works on agriculture, horse-breeding, and British natural history, but two racks were filled with guns and fishing rods and the table Foster was seated at had a vice clamped to its edge. He had once had a commodious gunroom, but had given it up, under pressure from his wife, who thought she could make a better use of it, since Hazlehurst was small and she had numerous guests, but the study was his private retreat. A hacksaw, a few files, a wire brush, and a bottle of Rangoon oil were spread out in front of him, the latter standing, for the sake of cleanliness, on the cover of the _Field_.

Foster was a red-faced country gentleman who found his greatest interest in outdoor sports and was characterized by some native shrewdness and a genial but rather abrupt manner. He laid down his tools and looked up with an air of humorous resignation as his wife came in. Mrs. Foster was a slender, vivacious woman, fond of society.