“If any one says or does a foolish thing it’s always here. All the family breezes have started here. It’s a kind of focus for aimed and aimless scandal. You know, when my father and mother had their special quarrel, my aunt was mixed up in it,—I never knew how or how much—but you may be sure she didn’t calm things down, unless she found things more entertaining calm.”
“Rickie! Rickie!” cried the lady from the garden, “Your riding-master’s impatient.”
“We really oughtn’t to talk of her like this here,” whispered Agnes. “It’s a horrible habit.”
“The habit of the country, Agnes. Ugh, this gossip!” Suddenly he flung his arms over her. “Dear—dear—let’s beware of I don’t know what—of nothing at all perhaps.”
“Oh, buck up!” yelled the irritable Stephen. “Which am I to shorten—left stirrup or right?”
“Left!” shouted Agnes.
“How many holes?”
They hurried down. On the way she said: “I’m glad of the warning. Now I’m prepared. Your aunt will get nothing out of me.”
Her betrothed tried to mount with the wrong foot according to his invariable custom. She also had to pick up his whip. At last they started, the boy showing off pretty consistently, and she was left alone with her hostess.
“Dido is quiet as a lamb,” said Mrs. Failing, “and Stephen is a good fielder. What a blessing it is to have cleared out the men. What shall you and I do this heavenly morning?”