“You can follow as fast as you please,” called Julia.
“Oh, we follow, princess, we follow!” drawled Thair; “but don’t make the way too steep.”
The pink coats gave curious glances at Longacre’s bare head and golf attire.
The uncoupled hounds scattered over the field, nuzzling through the wet, brown grass, till, with a short yelp from one throat and a long howl from thirty, they had the scent and were off. The field was bunched at the start, Longacre well up with Julia, who was riding hard for the lead.
The going was heavy, and for this the bars were down, but the girl rode straight at the fence. Her black mare sank over fetlock on the other side, but was away with a bare instant lost, a nose behind Longacre, who, with the rest, had taken the open gate.
“If you do that again,” he shouted, “I’ll lead you!”
She laughed and spurred away from him.
The M. F. H., with a dismayed look at her, was protesting to Thair, who shrugged. There was no help for it, he seemed to say.
The girl’s hat, crammed over her eyes, pressed the hair to a close sweep low above her brows. Her nostrils dilated, her color burned. The riders strung out, Holden drawing abreast Julia, Longacre dropping back a length to Thair’s pace.
“Easier going presently, I trust,” the latter said, as his horse sank an off leg. “Look at the dogs,” he added, as the pack darted away in a course almost at right angles to their first. “We’ll have a run for our money!”