"Yes," Theodora said, with outward obedience and an inward resolve not to be at all tired.
"If you do ride, when shall you get home?" the doctor asked. "Give yourselves plenty of time, only set some limit, so that we sha'n't be anxious."
"Hm," Theodora said thoughtfully. "Supper at five, start at six, two hours to ride, and an hour for delays. We'll be at home at nine, at the latest."
"Very well. Say half-past nine, then. We won't worry till then. Take care of yourselves and have a good time." And the doctor flourished his napkin in farewell, and then went back to his breakfast.
"Dear old Daddy!" Theodora said, while she turned in her saddle to look back, and then waved a good-by to Billy on his piazza. "He didn't want us to go. I do hope he won't be anxious."
"Don't you suppose I can take care of you, ma'am?" Hubert asked, in mock indignation, and Theodora smiled back at him contentedly.
The day was hot and dusty, and the roads more sandy than they had supposed possible, so that it was a very limp and demoralized Theodora who landed, three hours later, on her aunt's piazza. Theodora was always destructive to her toilets, and in some mysterious manner she had parted with all of her starch and most of her neatness, in the course of the last nineteen miles. Once inside the cool, dark house, with a glass of lemonade in her hand, however, Theodora forgot the discomforts of the road.
"How goes it with you, Ted?" Hubert asked, late that afternoon. "Shall we ride, or take the train?"
She pointed up at the clear sky, broken only by a few fleecy masses of cloud on the western horizon.
"Think what that moon will be, and then ask me to take the train if you dare."