“They want you at the weighing-stand, Colonel Sewell,” said a gentleman, riding up.
“Oh, they do! Well, say, please, that I 'm coming. Has he given you that black horse?” asked he, in a hurried whisper.
“No; he offered him, but I refused.”
“You had no right to refuse; he's strong enough to carry me; and the ponies that I saw led round to the stable-yard, whose are they?”
“They are Captain Trafford's.”
“You told him you thought them handsome, I suppose, didn't you?”
“Yes, I think them very beautiful.”
“Well, don't take them as a present. Win them if you like at piquet or écarté,—any way you please, but don't take them as a gift, for I heard Westenra say they were meant for you.”
She nodded; and as she bent her head, a smile, the very strangest, crossed her features. If it were not that the pervading expression of her face was at the instant melancholy, the look she gave him would have been almost devilish.
“I have something else to say, but I can't remember it.”