‘Are you a good horsewoman, Miss—Clara?’ I said, with a feel after the recovery of old privileges.
‘I must not sing my own praises, Mr—Wilfrid,’ she rejoined, ‘but I have ridden in Rotten Row, and I believe without any signal disgrace.’
‘Have you got a side-saddle?’ I asked, dismounting.
Mr Coningham spoke now.
‘Don’t you think Mr Cumbermede’s horse a little too frisky for you, Clara? I know so little about you, I can’t tell what you’re fit for.—She used to ride pretty well as a girl,’ he added, turning to me.
‘I’ve not forgotten that,’ I said. ‘I shall walk by her side, you know.’
‘Shall you?’ she said, with a sly look.
‘Perhaps,’ I suggested, ‘your grandfather would let me have his horse, and then we might have a gallop across the park.’
‘The best way,’ said Mr Coningham, ‘will be to let the gardener take your horse, while you come in and have some luncheon. We’ll see about the mount after that. My horse has to carry me back in the evening, else I should be happy to join you. She’s a fine creature, that of yours.’
‘She’s the handiest creature!’ I said—‘a little skittish, but very affectionate, and has a fine mouth. Perhaps she ought to have a curb-bit for you, though, Miss Clara.’