Again Steenie considered seriously. Her hesitation was not for herself, of course, but for that proud old lady whom she so loved and, also, feared. “If I earned it that way it couldn’t be wrong, could it? To keep a dear grandmother in ‘the home of her youth.’ My father says what we do things for, makes the things hono’ble, or dishono’ble. That was ’bout the riding-school. He would have let me, only he didn’t like—You know. ’Count o’ Grandmother. This won’t be wrong, will it?”
“From my point of view it seems very right, in every way; unless you are afraid of the horse, or the publicity.”
“What’s that?”
“The people,—the being stared at. Will it make any difference with your nerves?”
“No! Oh, no! Grandmother says I haven’t any nerves, she guesses. And I’m not afraid of folks—no more than horses. Why should I be? They’re awful nice to me. Everybody is.”
“How can they help being? Is it a compact, then?”
“Yes, yes, yes! Oh, what fun! It makes me think of San’ Felis’ an’ my dear ‘boys,’ an’ most of all of darling Bob. He’d be proud of the Little Un, wouldn’t he? Oh, if he only knew!” She turned from Trixie’s stall toward the stable door, and looked up at somebody who stood there, the attendant groom, she had supposed.
“He does, Little Un! Here he is! All the way from Californy to see you win!”
“Bob! My Bob!”