“Yes; perfectly. And you bought my horse last summer. How is he?”
“In great form. I forgot to ask what you called him; I've named him Hotspur—he'll never be steady at his fences. I remember how he pulled with you that day.”
They were silent, smiling, as people will in remembrance of a good run.
Then, looking at the dog, Gyp said softly:
“HE looks rather a darling. How old?”
“Twelve. Beastly when dogs get old!”
There was another little silence while he contemplated her steadily with his clear eyes.
“I came over to call once—with my mother; November the year before last. Somebody was ill.”
“Yes—I.”
“Badly?”