The boy stood staring at her, his feet as helpless as if they had taken root in the ground. Suddenly he remembered his mission. His native impudence reasserted itself, and he started forward.
"Voylets, lidy? Wear your colours. You ain't allowed to trot without."
The girl gazed at him, her blue eyes bright as stars on a windy night. An enchanting dimple twinkled about her curved lips in gay hide-and-seek, and when she laughed, fled upward to her eyes.
"Father," she said, "will you buy my colours from this bold sporting gentleman?"
As the man fumbled in an inner pocket for change, the lad took a swift inventory. The face, beneath the tall hat, was a powerful oval, paste-coloured, with thin lips, and heavy lines from nostril to jaw. The eyes were close-set and of a turbid grey.
"It's him," the boy assured himself, and opened his mouth to speak.
"So you are a sporting man," the girl rallied him gaily, adjusting the flowers.
The boy nodded, responding instantly to her mood.
"Only," he swept her with shrewd, appraising eyes, that noted every detail of her delicate beauty and sumptuousness, "I don't trot in the two-minute class myself."
The girl laughed a clear silvery peal, and turned impulsively to the young man in evening dress who had just dismissed his hansom and joined the group.