“It would be better,” said Lady Withers. She began to beam again. “In fact, I have another nephew; but I must play,” she added, and went back to the card-table. “Cecil,” she observed, before the hand began, “there will be some of Mr. Barclay’s horses delivered at the Hall in a fortnight from now. Will you make your plans to be there for a few days?”
The Hon. Cecil was dealing, but he stopped. “I tell you it’s all rubbish, these American horses,” he said petulantly. “And besides, they buck like devils. It’s an awful bore.”
“Not any more than any young thoroughbred horses might buck,” said Mr. Carteret. “They may kick and play, but it’s nothing.”
“Cecil is only joking about the bucking,” said a soft voice from the chimney-corner. It was Lady Mary. “Cecil can ride anything that was ever saddled,” she added.
“Still, it is a bore,” said the Hon. Cecil, only partly mollified by the sisterly compliment.
“One word,” said Mr. Carteret in an undertone to Cecil. “Please tell Lady Withers that I’m going to buy that horse your sister was riding.”
“Good horse,” said the Hon. Cecil, and he went on with his dealing.
Mr. Carteret did not add that he was going to have him shot and fed to the hounds. Instead, he went back to the fireplace, where the gray eyes were gleaming in the firelight.
“You mustn’t keep Mr. Carteret from cabling,” Lady Withers called from the bridge-table; “and while I think of it,” she added, “won’t you and Mr. Barclay come to Crumpeton for a week as soon as the horses arrive? I shall write you. Do you think that Mr. Barclay will be able to come?”
“I think it probable,” said Mr. Carteret.