Sir Timothy turned his head.
“If ever I happen to meet you, my good man,” he threatened, “using your whip upon a poor beast who's doing his best, I promise you you won't get up in two minutes, or twenty.... We might walk the last few yards, Mr. Ledsam.”
The latter acquiesced at once, and in a moment or two they were underneath the portico of the Opera House. Sir Timothy had begun to talk about the opera but Francis was a little distrait. His companion glanced at him curiously.
“You are puzzled, Mr. Ledsam?” he remarked.
“Very,” was the prompt response.
Sir Timothy smiled.
“You are one of these primitive Anglo-Saxons,” he said, “who can see the simple things with big eyes, but who are terribly worried at an unfamiliar constituent. You have summed me up in your mind as a hardened brute, a criminal by predilection, a patron of murderers. Ergo, you ask yourself why should I trouble to save a poor beast of a horse from being chastised, and go out of my way to provide her with a safe asylum for the rest of her life? Shall I help you, Mr. Ledsam?”
“I wish you would,” Francis confessed.
They had passed now through the entrance to the Opera House and were in the corridor leading to the grand tier boxes. On every side Sir Timothy had been received with marks of deep respect. Two bowing attendants were preceding them. Sir Timothy leaned towards his companion.
“Because,” he whispered, “I like animals better than human beings.”