“Yes, Ingram told me about your Demon colt. I’d like to have a look at him. Got anything likely to suit me?”
“I might have. Come up to the stables presently, and you can cast your eye over what I’ve got.”
“If he weren’t a bit short of bone, that liver-chestnut would do nicely for Cliff, Ray,” remarked Clara, replenishing Delia’s cup.
“Cliff likes a lot in front of him,” put in Bart. “Tell you what, Cliff, I’ll sell you my Thunderbolt!”
“Why, what’s wrong with him?” retorted Clifford.
“I don’t like a sorrel,” said Clara, with a decisive shake of her head.
“A good horse,” said Bart sententiously, “can’t be a bad colour. There’s nothing wrong with him.”
“Barring his being at least three inches too long behind the saddle,” interpolated Raymond dryly.
Realising that Clifford was now embarked fairly upon a discussion of horseflesh which would in all probability last for the rest of his stay, Clay relieved his feelings by saying, “O God!” under his breath, and sighing audibly.
As might have been expected, the conversation gradually extended to nearly everyone else in the room; and after arguing loudly over the merits and demerits of quite half the horses at present in the stables or out to grass, the Penhallows surged out, under Penhallow’s direction, to conduct the guests to the stud-farm. As this lay at a considerable distance from the house, the services of all the available cars were requisitioned, Penhallow himself being hoisted into the dilapidated limousine, which Bart had had to fetch from the garage to accommodate him, the Vicar, Faith, Clara, and Phineas. Delia, after fluttering about in an aimless fashion for a few minutes, got into Raymond’s two-seater, reminding him that he had promised to show her his dear little colts. The only people to abstain from the expedition were Eugene and Vivian. The rest of the party drove off towards the uplands, taking in the hunting-stables on the way, and having most of the horses there paraded before them. Faith, who had developed a nagging headache, leaned back in the corner of the car with closed eyes, trying to shut her ears to the sound of insistent voices tossing scraps of hunting jargon to and fro; and Clay, standing in the yard amongst, yet apart from, his brothers, watched a succession of horses pass him, and with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, imagined the most restive apportioned to him. Raymond said, as Weens led out a bay whose chosen mode of progression was a sort of restless dance: “He might suit you, Clay.”