"Ah, I'm sorry, I'm very sorry," repeated father. "But he's young—easily misled. I must have a talk with him. I didn't know the lad was in these parts."
"He's not," said I. "He was to have come, but he has had an accident; he has been thrown from his horse in a steeple-chase."
"God bless my soul!" cried father, starting up from his chair. "Why didn't you say so? Not killed?"
My eyes were on Joyce's face. She had looked up anxiously, but she had not changed color one bit.
"No, not killed," answered I, slowly; "but I don't know how badly hurt. The telegram didn't say."
"Poor lad, poor lad! murmured father, concernedly, as he sat down again. But still Joyce did not speak. She looked serious and distressed, and a faint pink flush had deepened on her cheek, but there was no horror in her eyes.
"Men shouldn't ride in steeple-chases," said Harrod. "It's the most dangerous of all riding—and only for amusement, after all."
"I should have thought Captain Forrester was such a splendid rider that he could have managed any horse," said Joyce.
"Oh, it's not always a matter of mere management in a steeple-chase," said Harrod. And I do believe my sister was actually opening her mouth to reply to him, when I said, sharply, "Joyce, mother wants you," and by that means got her out of the room.