“Oh, Badjour and I understand each other,” said Neva lightly, patting the horse’s proudly arched neck. “I never ride a horse, Mr. Black, if I have not confidence in my ability to control him.”
“But the road is so narrow and dangerous at this point,” said Craven Black, wheeling and riding slowly at her side.
“You are right, Mr. Black. The road must be fenced in. I will speak to Lord Towyn about it.”
“And why not to Sir John Freise or Mr. Atkins, who are equally your guardians?” asked Craven Black, with an attempt at playfulness.
“Because I presume I shall see Lord Towyn first,” replied Neva, gravely. “What do you say to a race, Mr. Black? I see that you are returning with me.”
Craven Black looked over his shoulder. The discreet groom had fallen behind out of earshot. Now was the time to make his declaration of love. Such an opportunity might not again occur.
“The truth is, Miss Wynde,” he exclaimed, “I came out to meet you. I want to have a quiet talk with you, if you will hear me.”
Neva bowed her head gravely, and her reins fell loosely in her gauntleted hand. They were out upon the wide common now, the Dingle farm behind them. The Dingle wood ahead.
“You may guess the nature of the communication I have to make to you, Miss Wynde,” said her elderly lover, with an appearance of agitation, a portion of which was genuine. “That which I have to say would be more fittingly said in some other position perhaps. I should prefer to say it on my knees to you, as the knights made love in olden times.”
“Oh!” said Neva. “Hadn’t we better move on faster, Mr. Black?”