"'On that auspicious day began the race
Of every virtue joined in one sweet Grace.'"
"What is my birthday to you, Peter?"
"You can ask that! I must answer in an epigram. There is only one reply possible. Martial—but I know a beautiful translation:—
"'Believing hear what you deserve to hear:
Your birthday as my own to me is dear;
But yours gives most; for mine did only lend
Me to the world; yours gave to me a friend.'
Only that word 'friend' is too weak."
"I wish you would be content with friendship, and not fret me to death with all this nonsense. Do you know that father has bought me a lovely hunter for a birthday gift?"
"I do. And that horse will want a whip—until he knows your voice; and that whip Peter Norcot has provided. 'Tis almost worthy of you—a pretty toy."
"I don't want your whip," she said.
Mr. Norcot cast about for something from The Taming of the Shrew; but he changed his mind. Meantime Grace spoke again.
"I shall be sorry to give up riding my poor little 'Russet.' Still, he's not up to my weight now; and he's growing elderly and lazy, and I'm to hunt next season. Won't it be lovely?"