He was at last at her side. It was true. But not so much like an apron. More like a red, varnished stocking. He said:
"You've a white petticoat on. Get over the hedge; jump it, and take it off . . ."
"Tear it into strips?" she asked. "Yes!"
He called to her; she was suspended halfway up the bank:
"Tear one half off first. The rest into strips."
She said: "All right!" She didn't go over the quickset as neatly as he had expected. No take off. But she was over. . . .
The horse, trembling, was looking down, its nostrils distended, at the blood pooling from its near foot. The cut was just on the shoulder. He put his left arm right over the horse's eyes. The horse stood it, almost with a sigh of relief. . . . A wonderful magnetism with horses. Perhaps with women too? God knew. He was almost certain she had said "Dear."
She said: "Here." He caught a round ball of whitish, stuff. He undid it. Thank God: what sense! A long, strong, white band. . . . What the devil was the hissing. . . . A small, closed car with crumpled mud-guards: noiseless nearly: gleaming black . . . God curse it: it passed them: stopped ten yards down . . . the horse rearing back: mad! Clean mad . . . something like a scarlet and white cockatoo, fluttering out of the small car door . . . a general. In full tog. White feathers! Ninety medals! Scarlet coat! Black trousers with red stripe. Spurs too, by God!
Tietjens said:
"God damn you, you bloody swine. Go away!"