“Not yet, Madam; that is, none to suit, but I am promised one to-morrow.”
“Ah! indeed!” she said, indifferently, and was turning away, when Selina Maury came by.
“Oh! Mr. Emory, do tell me, is the race really off, or will there be a man to ride your lovely horse? I am perfectly wild to see him again!” and in her eager, restless way, with the usual girlish impulse, she laid her hand on his arm, looking up into his face as if a whole world of adoration were in her eyes.
“Pretty enough eyes, too,” thought Neil, as he smiled.
“If he looks that way again,” said the girl to herself, “I’ll box Bob’s jaws when he kisses me!”
“Yes,” said Emory, “I hope he will run on Monday, if the promised man suits. A blacksmith is to bring a youngster to-morrow and I shall judge what he can do. Would you like to see another jockey tossed, Miss Gwinn?” he asked, laughing a little, hard laugh as he turned to her.
“Are they always killed?” she asked; “and does it hurt very much to have one’s neck broken? I wonder why persons will be so silly as to fall off and get their necks broken!”
“But he was thrown,” cried Selina, “and so his neck was cracked.”
“No,” said Gwendoline; “I don’t think I care to see that any more; but I promise to be at the race, if that comes off—and not the jockey.”
A little laugh from the bystanders, and then she rose, slowly drawing herself away from the dark cushions, and, uncoiling her train from around her feet, bowed to those beside her and glided after her mother in and out of the crowd, like a long green serpent.