“Well?” said she. “Don't you like galloping?”
“Yes, but I don't like cruelty.”
“Cruelty?”
“Look at the mare's tail how it is quivering, and her flanks panting! And no wonder. You have been over twice the Derby course at a racing pace. Miss Vizard, a horse is not a steam engine.”
“I'll never ride her again,” said Zoe. “I did not come here to be scolded. I will go home.”
They walked slowly home in silence. Uxmoor hardly knew what to say to her; but at last he murmured, apologetically, “Never mind the poor mare, if you are better for galloping her.”
She waited a moment before she spoke, and then she said, “Well, yes; I am better. I'm better for my ride, and better for my scolding. Good-by.” (Meaning forever.)
“Good-by,” said he, in the same tone. Only he sent the mare next day, and followed her on a young thorough-bred.
“What!” said Zoe; “am I to have another trial?”
“And another after that.”