It was a golden morning of glorious June, and, of course, things constantly happen at that vernal season. But as the four pairs of irresponsible hoofs came thundering by, flinging up the tan in all directions and nearly knocking over a policeman, equestrians of both sexes, and pedestrians too, stared in polite amazement and very decided disapproval. If not absolutely contrary to the park regulations, it was certainly very wrong behavior.
There is every reason to suspect that the opinion of that high authority, Mr. Bryant, was even more uncompromising. Not for an instant did he attempt to cope with the pace that had been set. He was content sadly to watch his charge get farther and farther away. He then turned to look back at the man with the red face, who had just arrived at the turn.
That elevated personage, who could not see at all well without his spectacles, halted at the turn and looked in vain for the wonderful Miss Perry. His friend Cheriton, who had entered the gates just in time to be au courant with all that had happened, accosted him cheerfully.
“Doctors’ orders, George?”
“Ye-es,” said George, rather gruffly.
“I warned you years ago, my dear fellow,” said his friend, sympathetically, “that any man who drinks port wine in the middle of the day as a regular thing, can count later in life on the crown of the martyr.”
George looked rather cross. He peered to the right and he peered to the left. The ever-receding pair were by now undecipherable to stronger eyes than those of George Betterton.
“Seen a gal about?” he inquired rather irritably. There never was a duke since the creation of the order who could endure to be kept waiting.
“I’ve seen several,” said his friend, with an air of preternatural innocence.
“I mean that gal of Caroline Crewkerne’s,” said George.