"By Jove! she gave you the cut direct, Les."
"I am sure, I don't know," said Mr. Leicester, with the most provoking gravity. "She did, most likely, if you say so, Bertie—you, who are so well versed in woman's wiles and smiles."
"Hem!" laughed Bertie, "you haven't made much impression in that quarter, Les, and—Hello!" he broke off, "those blessed ponies have started round, and here they come, neck or nothing! By Heaven! they'll be over that wall, trap and all, if she don't pull them in directly!"
Leicester turned round sharply, and, without a word, set off running across the road.
"Keep tight hold of the reins!" he cried, in his deep, musical voice, as the two ponies came dashing along, with their wicked, little heads thrown back and the tiny, toy phaeton swinging and rocking behind them. "Keep a tight hand on the reins, and don't be frightened," he added, as he glanced at Violet's face, which was pale, but set fast and firm with determination and courage.
She nodded slightly to show him that she heard and would obey, and he saw the tiny, little hands close fast upon the reins.
The next instant he made a spring at the pony with such force that the little animal was nearly knocked over, and dragged him to a standstill.
Snap went one of the traces, and up went Master Spot, but a round smack on the head from Leicester's hand quieted him, and then Leicester turned, with a smile, to Violet.
"You haven't acquired the art yet," he said, nodding laughingly. "I am afraid you do not use the whip enough."
Violet bit her lip with vexation for a moment in silence, then burst into a merry laugh, which had not a particle of fear in it.