You see, he had not entirely washed out of himself the ceremonious starch of Hapsburg.
She glanced quickly toward him and answered poutingly:--
"If you don't like my jesting, Sir Max, you may leave me to ride alone."
"You asked me to ride with you," returned Max, "but if you have changed your mind and insist on being ill-tempered, I will--"
She reached out her hand, and, grasping his bridle-reins, threw them over the pommel of her saddle.
"Now let me see what you will do, my great Lord Somebody," she cried defiantly. "You shall not only ride beside me, but you shall also listen good-humoredly to my jests when I am pleased to make them, and bear with my ill-humor when I am pleased to be ill-humored."
Max left the bridle-reins in her hand, but did not smile. She was not to be driven from her mood.
"You are such a serious person, Sir Max, that you must, at times, feel yourself a great weight--almost burdensome--to carry about." She laughed, though his resentment had piqued her, and there was a dash of anger in her words. "Ponderous persons are often ridiculous and are apt to tire themselves with their own weight--no, Sir Max, you can't get away. I have your reins."
"I can dismount," returned Max, "and leave you my horse to lead."
He turned to leave his saddle, but she caught his arm, rode close to his side, and, slipping her hand down his sleeve, clasped his hand--if a hand so small as hers can be said to clasp one so large as his.