When the riders headed the procession down the steep dip of the drive, Cissy’s blonde head was nodding and ducking to Longacre’s passive profile with such calm assurance of how cleverly she had managed it, that Florence Essington could not repress a smile.
Holden, who, at the instant, had pulled up his horses at the steps, took the expression to himself with simplicity. The concentration with which he took in what was immediately before him, without regard to things behind or beyond, was a relief to her. Now his hands were so full of his horses that he had hardly a glance for her. The impatient sorrels were making preliminary attempts to run over the groom at their bits.
“Can you make it?” Holden said, as he brought the runabout to momentary quiet.
She was in with the dart of a swallow.
The groom sprang aside, and Florence felt herself precipitated, as in one plunge, toward the sea.
“Hey, hey!” Holden growled under his breath. The reins were taut, and his arm, brushing her shoulder, was as stiff as steel. The animals, curbed and quivering, danced down the slope like fine ladies, shaking their heads with a vague threat of another outburst.
“They’re crazy for a run,” Holden murmured caressingly. “We’ll have to head that procession,” and he nodded toward the group stringing through the gate.
“That is what I should like,” said Florence.
“Then we’ll put them clean out of sight,” he answered.
They passed the foremost riders as these were swinging into the coast road, and for a few moments Florence saw oaks and ocean as a blur of olive-green pierced with flashes of bright blue.