The pup gave an ecstatic lunge and licked her cheek with his wet, red tongue. She laughed, as she wiped off the kiss.
“I was sure you’d love to bite him,” she said approvingly, “only you’d better do it when he hasn’t got that white bull terrier of his with him. Jimmy says it’s a terrible fighter.”
The Smiling Lady felt like riding. She felt so much like it that she sparkled in the most amazing way at the mere mention of it.
“Such beauties,” she said, leaning across the porch railing to pat the horses. “And how fine for Peggy to learn to ride! She wasn’t afraid, was she?”
“Afraid? Peg?” Archibald laughed the idea to scorn.
“Yes; that’s so,” agreed the Smiling Lady. “She’s Irish. We’re the reckless lot. It’s only ourselves we’ve to fear. Just a few minutes, and I’ll get my habit.”
She ran upstairs and Archibald, waiting, heard her singing somewhere, gay lilting snatches of song that told of joy at the heart of her.
In ten minutes a slim boyish figure came out upon the porch. She was all in brown from the crown of her soft felt hat to the toes of her smart tan boots. The long coat had been made by a tailor who knew his business. The soft shirt and stock were eminently correct. She was well turned out, this young Amazon.
A light pressure of a boot in his hand and she was in the saddle. A moment more and they were off into the sweet of Summitland.