‘Just as you could tell that white creature from this brown one. I know it, hilt and scabbard, as well as a human face.’
‘As well as mine, for instance?’
‘I am surer of it than I was of you this morning. It hasn’t changed like you.’
Our talk was interrupted by the appearance of a gentleman on horseback approaching us. I thought at first it was Clara’s father, setting out for home, and coming to bid us good-bye; but I soon saw I was mistaken. Not, however, until he came quite close, did I recognize Geoffrey Brotherton. He took off his hat to my companion, and reined in his horse.
‘Are you going to give us in charge for trespassing, Mr Brotherton?’ said Clara.
‘I should be happy to take you in charge on any pretence, Miss Coningham. This is indeed an unexpected pleasure.’
Here he looked in my direction.
‘Ah!’ he said, lifting his eyebrows, ‘I thought I knew the old horse! What a nice cob you’ve got, Miss Coningham.’
He had not chosen to recognize me, of which I was glad, for I hardly knew how to order my behaviour to him. I had forgotten nothing. But, ill as I liked him, I was forced to confess that he had greatly improved in appearance—and manners too, notwithstanding his behaviour was as supercilious as ever to me.
‘Do you call her a cob, then?’ said Clara. ‘I should never have thought of calling her a cob.—She belongs to Mr Cumbermede.’