“Seems to be,” said Wyndham drily. “You’d think he’d had enough of that sort of thing day before yesterday, and this morning, to last him at any rate for a day or two, and now instead of having a quiet smoke and a cool drink, like a rational Christian, he must race off along with your crowd to contract for some more knocks. Silly ass!”
“There’s something in it when you put things that way. But—I say. Who’s the lady?”
“Where?” following his glance. “Oh, that’s Miss Vidal, Fullerton’s sister-in-law.”
“So! By Jove! what a fine-looking girl. Oh! oh!—Wyndham, you deep-down dog! So that’s where the little venture in charioteering came in, eh? I see.”
“Shut up, Selby, and don’t be a silly ass,” answered Wyndham shortly. “I hate that sort of chaff, you know.”
“Oh, all right, old man. Keep your shirt in,” was the good-humoured rejoinder.
“I think I’ll go and talk to Miss Vidal now,” said Wyndham, just a trifle self-consciously. “By Jove! she has been plucky throughout all this.”
“So? Well, good luck, old man.”
Clare had returned to her post of observation outside, but there was still no sign of the returning pursuit: and now a dire heart-sinking began to take the place of her former resentment. She looked at her watch. They had been away an hour nearly. Surely the work of completing the rout should have been over by that time. They should be returning, and there was one whom she would scold—scold gently—for having gone with them. No. She believed she would not scold him at all. It would be all too sufficing to behold him once more safe and sound.
“Taking a morning constitutional, Miss Vidal? Well, it has turned out a lovely day, hasn’t it?” And Wyndham, conscious of the banality of the remark, felt rather foolish.