When Angus arrived the front yard was cluttered with horsemen and people he had never seen before. He saluted some friends. The glaring November sun caused him to swint his eyes and wipe the sweat out of his eyes. Then he saw Catherine Winship. Five years had passed since he'd made that foolish marriage proposa, and she'd whipped him with her tongue, put him in his place. He'd supposed that he would never see her again, but here she was crowded among the guests of the hunt. Her thick brown hair was tied in a bun and scarcely visible under her riding cap. The effect allowed her wide piercing eyes to dominate her china-doll skin. The thoughts of the past annoyed him with the uncomfortable truth of her rejection and the fact that she was entertaining an escort of her own class. The object of her pursuit was John Beavers, an aristocratic middle-aged bachelor of some dwindling wealth who owned a merchant store. He knew Beavers as a backroom gambler in the Charleston saloons, one whose passion for gaming caused him to play privately with the worst sorts, while snobbing them publicly. Catherine, thinking her snare in tow, maneuvered her horse beside his.
The Colonel uncaged a pinned fox and watched his fury body leap through the woods and disappear. The hounds howled. A few minutes passed before he let loose the hounds. Then the Colonel standing on his portico blew the trumpet. They were off!