‘Ah!’ he said again, arching his eyebrows as before, and looking straight at me as if he had never seen me in his life.
I think I succeeded in looking almost unaware of his presence. At least so I tried to look, feeling quite thankful to Clara for defending my mare: to hear her called a cob was hateful to me.
After listening to a few more of his remarks upon her, made without the slightest reference to her owner, who was not three yards from her side, Clara asked him, in the easiest manner—
‘Shall you be at the county ball?’
‘When is that?’
‘Next Thursday.’
‘Are you going?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Then will you dance the first waltz with me?’
‘No, Mr Brotherton.’