"He hasn't been here all the time?"
"Waiting in the road."
"Oh, he's a horse."
I laughed by way of answer, and we walked to where Pomfret stood, patient, immobile. I introduced him elaborately. My lady swept him a curtsey.
"I have to thank you for lending me your rug, Pomfret," she said.
I replied for the little chap:
"It's not my rug; I am but the bail—"
"That's all right. Is your master nice to you?"
"But yes, lady. Don't you like him?"
"He seems to mean well."