“To ‘Chatters,’ if you must. ’Tis his house—my brother’s.”
“Your brother’s?”
“He is Sir David Blythewood, sir.”
“You must pardon me. I have only made my début in the neighbourhood this day or so.”
“Yes; I know.”
She looked at him with a vague little smile. Her eyes swam as pale a blue as plumbago flowers. Her features were cut to a sharpish pattern; but their complexion was of snow berries, and the softness of youth triumphed over all angles. Suddenly she put her hands to her rumpled hair.
“My hat!” she cried.
“I fear it has followed the saltier. We must make shift without it.”
She rose at once and took the arm he offered. The shock and the fright seemed to have confused her, so that her actions and most of her speech were mechanical.
When he had helped her to mount and was riding beside her, he had full opportunity, in the intermittent silences that fell awkwardly between them, to study her very dainty personality. She managed her “grey” like one finely educated in the science of horsemanship. All graces of mien and action seemed exhibited with the cultivated art that conceals art.