‘I fear our common sympathy on that subject is rather weakened. I have begun to doubt her lately nearly as much as I doubt philosophy.’
‘Not her virtue?
‘No, friend; nor her beauty, nor her wisdom; simply her power of making me a better man. A selfish criterion, you will say. Be it so.... What a noble horse that is of yours!’
‘He has been—he has been; but worn out now, like his master and his master’s fortunes....’
‘Not so, certainly, the colt on which you have done me the honour to mount me.’
‘Ah, my poor boy’s pet!.... You are the first person who has crossed him since—’
‘Is he of your own breeding?’ asked Raphael, trying to turn the conversation.
‘A cross between that white Nisaean which you sent me, and one of my own mares.’
‘Not a bad cross; though he keeps a little of the bull head and greyhound flank of your Africans.’
‘So much the better, friend. Give me bone—bone and endurance for this rough down country. Your delicate Nisaeans are all very well for a few minutes over those flat sands of Egypt: but here you need a horse who will go forty miles a day over rough and smooth, and dine thankfully off thistles at night. Aha, poor little man!’—as a jerboa sprang up from a tuft of bushes at his feet—‘I fear you must help to fill our soup-kettle in these hard times.’