The groom brought the horses, and, as he tightened up the girth on Monty's dark bay Arab, asked me:
"Are you going to see Mr. Doe, sir?"
I turned away without answering. I hadn't spoken to him, and there was no occasion for him to speak to me.
"Yes, we are," said Monty promptly.
"Sad about such a nice young gentleman. He's packing up, they say."
"The damned alarmist!" thought I. "He relishes the grim news."
But I knew in my heart that I was only grudging him his right to be sorry for Doe. Who was he to grieve? Three months before he had not heard of us. On all the Peninsula there was only one just claim to the right of grieving: and that was mine.
Monty mounted. Seizing the reins carelessly, I put my foot in the chestnut's stirrup. As I rose, the bit pulled on the mare's mouth and she wheeled and reared, shaking me awkwardly to the ground.
"Damn the bloody horse," I said aloud.
Monty stroked his bay's silk neck, as though he had heard nothing.