“Oh no!”
“Darling, I can't help it if things are n't cheerful. We have eyes,” he added, quoting from the letter.
Antonia did not look at him; but touched her horse again.
“Well, I don't want to see the gloomy side,” she said, “and I can't see why YOU should. It's wicked to be discontented;” and she galloped off.
It was not his fault if there were a thousand different kinds of men, a thousand different points of view, outside the fence of her experience! “What business,” he thought, digging in his dummy spurs, “has our class to patronise? We 're the only people who have n't an idea of what life really means.” Chips of dried turf and dust came flying back, stinging his face. He gained on her, drew almost within reach, then, as though she had been playing with him, was left hopelessly behind.
She stooped under the far hedge, fanning her flushed face with dock-leaves:
“Aha, Dick! I knew you'd never catch me” and she patted the chestnut mare, who turned her blowing muzzle with contemptuous humour towards Shelton's steed, while her flanks heaved rapturously, gradually darkening with sweat.
“We'd better take them steadily,” grunted Shelton, getting off and loosening his girths, “if we mean to get home at all.”
“Don't be cross, Dick!”
“We oughtn't to have galloped them like this; they 're not in condition. We'd better go home the way we came.”