"I don't want to breed 'chasers," she said.
He laughed softly.
"Don't you?"
"No," she said. "I'm tired of it. I'm like mother. It's all right when you're quite young. But it doesn't last—if you've got anything in you. It's froth."
He nodded.
"You're right," he said. "What shall we breed?"
"Shire horses," the girl replied. "Great, strong, useful creatures that'll work all day and every day—"
"Bar Sunday," he said. "Remember grand-pa, please."
"—without a fuss," she continued, ignoring his impertinence, "shifting trucks, drawing the plough, and carrying the wheat, and come home tired of evenings with wet coats and healthy appetites."
"My old love," he said. "You're right, my dear, of course. But he's a beauty all the same."