CHAPTER XVII
"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Dashwood.
"Botherations!" replied Miss Grimshaw. "Look at this."
She handed him a neatly-printed card, folded in the middle. It looked like a ball programme. Nearly four months had passed. The Frenches had settled down at The Martens. The whole neighbourhood had called; there had been several small dinner parties at the bungalow, and Garryowen was turning out a dream. Training a horse is just like painting a picture; the thing grows in spirit and in form; it has some of you in it; the pride of the artist is not unallied to the pride of the trainer. When you see swiftness coming out, and strength, endurance, and pluck, you feel just as the artist feels when, of a morning, he uncovers his canvas and says to himself: "Ah! yes, I put some good stuff into that yesterday."
On the dull, clear winter mornings, in the bracing air of the Downs, French knew something of the joy of life as he watched Garryowen and The Cat taking exercise. Sometimes young ladies from Crowsnest would appear on the edge of the Downs to watch Mr. French's "dear horses." They little knew how apt that expression was.
* * * * *
Mr. Dashwood examined the card.