Cora Dean’s ponies were in the road, and that lady was just about to start for a drive.
Somehow, her door opened, and she came rustling down, closing her ears to a petulant call from her mother, and—perhaps it was an accident—so timed her descent that it would be impossible for the gentlemen to avoid offering to hand her to the carriage.
They both raised their hats as they stood upon the step, and she smiled and looked at Richard Linnell, but he did not stir.
“Come, Dick,” said Mellersh, with a half-sneer; “have you forgotten your manners?”
Linnell started, offered his arm, which was taken, and he led Cora down to the little carriage, the ponies beginning to stamp as the groom held their bits, while the bright, smiling look of their mistress passed away.
“The ponies look rather fresh,” said Richard Linnell, trying to be agreeable. “I should have their bearing reins tightened a little.”
“Why?” said Cora sharply, and with a glance full of resentment: and, at the same moment, she noted that Mellersh was leaning against the door-post, looking on.
“Why?” repeated Linnell, smiling in her face—but it was not the smile she wished to see—“for fear of another accident, of course.”
“What would you care?” she said in a low whisper. “I wish there would be another accident. Why didn’t you let me drown? I wish I were dead.”
She gave her ponies a sharp lash, the groom leaped aside, caught the back of the carriage, and swung himself up into his seat, and away they dashed at a gallop, while Linnell stood gazing after them, till Mellersh laid a hand upon his shoulder.