“Cap’n Goodeve’s, mum,” replied the lad, touching his cockaded hat with his snow-white glove.
At that moment out came cousin Regy from the house, buttoning his own gloves leisurely. “Hallo, Kitty,” said he, “what do you think of them? A pretty good match, aren’t they?”
“They are beautiful,” I responded, rapturously. “I should like to know what you gave for them—I mean, what horses of this sort cost in England?”
“I dare not tell you, Kitty, for fear you should let it out. I gave a great deal more than I could afford, to tell the truth; but I hate to drive anything but the best.”
“Oh, of course; there is no satisfaction in that,” I coolly replied, still criticising the perfect shape and action of those two. “How I should like to drive them!” I added, with a sigh.
“I should like to see you at it,” replied Regy, laughing. “Your wrists wouldn’t be worth much to you afterwards.”
“And do you think there is nothing but wrists wanting?” I inquired, reddening. “Wrists are not everything.”
“Ladies’ wrists are not enough, at any rate, to tackle such a pair of steam-engines as these.”
“Well, now, Regy, you just let me try. You can be ready to take the reins when I can’t hold them any longer. May I try? If they are properly broken, I’ll engage to drive them from one end of London to the other, in spite of the cabs and omnibuses.”
“What will you bet?”