"Let her rest," said Lady Dora, fixing a full look of meaning on Tremenhere; "those skilled in venery say, there is a balm for wound of hart."
"Yes, from the animal which has inflicted it," answered Tremenhere.
"Let us have a canter!" cried Lady Dora, starting off down an avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, where the sand deadened the sound of their flying horses' feet. It was a lovely day, and there were groups of equestrians. They had ridden some time, when they met three or four gentlemen together. After bowing en passant, Lord Randolph suddenly stopped—
"That's Gillingham!" he exclaimed; "and riding the very horse he wants me to buy. Lady Dora, may I leave you five minutes, à regret, however, on my own account, under Tremenhere's care. I will rejoin you near the pond."
She merely bowed.
"Beware of the 'Mare au Diable!'" cried Tremenhere to him, as he cantered off. "Have you read George Sand's tale of that name?" asked he of Lady Dora.
"No; that is, I am not certain of having done so—what is the plot?"
"Oh! one full of intense interest; simply told, and of simple persons. It may not interest you."
"I like simplicity," she replied.
"Do you? I am glad to hear that. True feeling is always simple, meek, and confiding."