'Very.'
'I thought so. There--back again. Gordon looks pleasant, doesn't he?'
His face certainly showed irritation, his hand did not; and as he turned the mare to face the starter again, he leant forward to pat the fine bronze neck.
There was greater interest this time as the pace slackened to a walk.
'Splendid line,' commended the Major--'now then, starter! Oh! dash the mare! No--by Jove, that was well done.'
'For the dun,' echoed the short man. 'Smart; very. Wonder how he managed it?' For as the flag fell, Bronzewing had reared straight on end, only to shoot forward with a bound which more than compensated for the delay on which the others had counted.
'Didn't you hear?' cried Rose, clasping her hands. 'It was the partridge's note did it. He--Mr. Gordon gave it. You heard, didn't you, Mr. Keene?'
'Yes! I heard.' He was as excited as she was. 'By Jove, what a sell for that dun brute! Look, there they are. He is in--right in to the posts; trust Gordon for that.'
Now to be in to the posts means something when you have to go twice round a course which follows the narrow oval of a valley. Except at the ends of the ellipse when a less clever-footed beast than Bronzewing might find trouble in the sharp curve.
'Oh! how badly that man rides,' cried Rose. 'He can't hold his horse. Ah!' She felt a wild inclination to cover her eyes--to get away--not to see; for, as the horses rose to a stone wall, a sudden swerve of his left-hand neighbour carried Lewis Gordon's foot clear out of the stirrup.