The cold eyes swept over her. Their expression made her aware of the shabbiness of the gig, of her own country-made dress, of the appearance she and Peregrine must present. “I should be very pleased to drive on, my good girl,” said the gentleman in the curricle, “but that apparently unmanageable steed of yours is—you may have noticed—making my progress impossible.”
Miss Taverner was not used to such a form of address, and it did not improve her temper. The farmer’s horse, in its frightened attempts to drag the gig out of the ditch, was certainly plunging rather wildly across the narrow road, but if only Peregrine would go to its head instead of jobbing at it, all would be well. The tiger, a sharp-faced scrap of uncertain age, dressed in a smart blue and yellow livery, was preparing to take the guidance of matters into his own hands. Miss Taverner, unable to bear the indignity of it, said fiercely: “Sir, I have already informed you that we don’t need your help! Get down, Perry! Give the reins to me!”
“I have not the slightest intention of offering you my help,” said the exquisite gentleman, rather haughtily raising his brows. “You will find that Henry is quite able to clear the road for me.”
And, indeed, by this time the tiger had grasped the horse’s rein above the bit, and was engaged in soothing the poor creature. This was very soon done, and in another minute the gig was clear of the ditch, and drawn up at the very edge of the road.
“You see, it was quite easy,” said that maddening voice.
Peregrine, who had till now been too much occupied in trying to control his horse to take part in the discussion, said angrily: “I’m aware the fault was mine, sir! Well aware of it!”
“We are all well aware of it,” replied the stranger amicably. “Only a fool would have attempted to turn his carriage at this precise point. Do you mean to keep me waiting very much longer, Henry?”
“I’ve said I admit the fault,” said Peregrine, colouring hotly, “and I’m sorry for it! But I shall take leave to tell you, sir, that you were driving at a shocking pace!”
He was interrupted somewhat unexpectedly by the tiger, who lifted a face grown suddenly fierce, and said in shrill Cockney accents: “You shut your bone-box, imperence! He’s the very best whip in the country, ah, and I ain’t forgetting Sir John Lade neither! There ain’t none to beat him, and them’s blood-chestnuts we’ve got in hand, and if them wheelers ain’t sprained a tendon apiece it ain’t nowise your fault!”
The gentleman in the curricle laughed. “Very true, Henry, but you will have observed that I am still waiting.”