“Until further notice,” he announced dryly, looking from one to the other, “these ‘pleasant home hours’ are suspended. By request. They’re too exciting for a quiet man like me. I hope you’ll all try to smother any disappointment you feel. And now,” turning to the butler, who had come in answer to his ring, “I’ll see if I can’t get the taste of this farewell performance of the pleasant hour series out of my mouth before I start my evening’s work. Gaines, order Dunderberg brought around in ten minutes.”
“Where are you going?” asked Mrs. Conover, who had imperfectly caught the order.
“To get into my riding clothes,” answered her husband from the doorway.
“But you spoke about Dunderberg. You’re surely not going to ride Dunderberg when I’m so shaken up. I shall worry so——”
“Why? You ain’t riding him.”
“But why not ride Sultan? He’s so gentle and quiet and——”
“Letty! do I look as if I was on a still hunt for something gentle and quiet? I want something that’ll give me a fight. Something that’ll tire me out and take my mind off black, floppy pompadours and stocking-leg gloves! Jerry, you come along with me. I want a talk with you.”
“Oh, if only that dreadful horse would die!” sighed Mrs. Conover. “I never have an instant’s peace while you’re riding him.”
“Rot!” growled Caleb, grinning reassurance at the pathetic little figure on the sofa. “There never yet was a horse I couldn’t manage or that could harm me. Come along, Jerry.”
He stamped upstairs to his dressing-room followed by the reluctant, still muttering Gerald.