MRS. OGILVIE.
"So you and Harvey are going for a drive?" Francesca remarked.
It was a tolerably fine afternoon three days later. The high dog-cart, Harvey's favourite vehicle, stood before the front door, the two spirited horses, Prince and Emperor, champing their bits and tossing their heads, eager to be off. The men at their heads seemed to have some trouble in restraining them. Julia was on the doorstep, dressed in hat and jacket, a pair of gloves in her left hand. Mrs. Trevor had come out of the drawing-room, with a woollen shawl round her shoulders.
"I thought I had told you. Harvey has some business to arrange with a gentleman eight miles off—Captain Woodthorpe is the name, I believe. He asked me to go with him. You would not care for the drive."
"Thanks—not I! If Paris boulevards were in question, that would be another matter. Nothing is more dismal than interminable country lanes, with dead leaves dropping in all directions, and the prospect of coming home in a pelt. Nothing to see, and nobody to see one! No; I'll wait for East Bourne. There'll be a chance of meeting some human beings on the parade. Besides, I don't like those horses. The last time I went out they frightened me to death with their pranks."
"Harvey would know if they were not safe."
"Harvey knows everything, of course! My dear, what man ever thinks about safety in connection with horses? He just wants to make a show. So long as he has the best thorough-breds in the country round, his neck may take its chance, and his wife's too. But I prefer not to have mine broken."
"You won't keep well if you never go out."
"There's nothing to go out for in Westford. I don't want to cultivate a country complexion, thanks—and my wardrobe wants attention. One will have to be respectable in East Bonnie. Is Harvey still set upon not going till Thursday or Friday in next week?"
"Quite!"