Bertie Fairfax looked up at the lady and then at the horse. He was a connoisseur of both.
"It is a beautiful day," he said, opening the conversation with the usual weatherwise remark. "Your horse looks as if he enjoyed it."
"Which he does," said Ethel. "I am sure I do. It is delightful—walking or riding."
"I should prefer the latter," said Bertie Fairfax, "but my horse is lamed temporarily and I am compelled to pedestrianize."
"What a pity," said Ethel, adding, with her sweet smile, "Perhaps the change will be good for you."
Bertie Fairfax looked up at her with his frank eyes to see if she was quizzing him, then laughed musically.
"Perhaps he thought so and tumbled down on purpose. It doesn't much matter—I like walking, but not here; I like more room. My friend, Mr. Dodson, however, insisted upon this promenade. He is an observer of human nature—a cynic, I regret to say—and finds material for bitter and scornful reflection in the gay and thoughtless crowd. Are you going to Lady Darefield's ball to-night?"
"Yes," said Ethel. "I presume you, also, by your question, are going?"
"Yes," said Bertie Fairfax, "I am glad to say."
Five minutes before he had sworn to Mr. Leicester Dodson that he wouldn't go to my Lady Darefield's ball for five hundred pounds, and five hundreds pounds were of some consequence to Mr. Bertie Fairfax.