"Very trying, indeed, to have a pretty girl demand a kiss," I laughed.
"Confound it!" he returned. "That's not the trouble; but I'm not horseman enough to lean over and get it."
There, you see, Reggy in one fell moment had destroyed all my illusions about him. Here was I worrying over his distress and presumed embarrassment, while he, hopeless young scamp that he was, showed actual regret because he couldn't fall from grace.
"I would suggest that you dismount," I answered, in a spirit of sarcasm.
For a moment I believe this insane thought obsessed him, and then his latent sense of military discipline and dignity saved him. He turned regretfully to the young lady, and pressing her hand warmly—very warmly, I thought—broke forth in schoolboy French:
"Merci, cherie! Mille fois, mille fois. Another time will have to do."
"Est-ce-que vous parlez Français, monsieur?" she demanded sweetly.
"Rather rough on your French, Reggy," I teased, "asking you, after that brilliant sortie, if you really speak the language."
Reggy appeared hurt.
"Look at you," he cried, "riding along like a bloated monarch, scooping in the obeisance of the whole kingdom, and because I command the attention—and, I trust, respect—of only one of your subjects, you're jealous. Out upon you—for shame!"