Not a word did she say. She stood leaning against a pillar, watching.
“Take him away!” shouts Sir Harry, “and if you, damned etc., sons of etc., bring him round again before I tell you myself, I’ll,” again etc.
A flute-like voice from the lady: “Suppose you’d permitted me, Sir Harry, what would you have betted I couldn’t master him?”
“Suppose I’d been fool enough to permit it, I’d have bet you fifty guineas you’d be a broken heap of bones in five minutes, and serve you right!” growls Sir Harry, turning to lounge in. The grooms turned also, she still watching—a statue in marble repose. Then, a most astonishing thing. While they were yet but a few steps away, she flew down the steps like a lapwing, and, with the horse held as it was on either side, she got one hand on a groom’s shoulder, the other on the pommel, made a wild scramble for the stirrup and was on his back before you could say Knife. She could not get her leg over the pommel in the hurry, but had her wits about her, her foot fast in the stirrup and a smart cut with her whip for either groom that sent them back smarting and swearing, and so off and away like a whirlwind—her right leg settled into safety at last, and Sir Harry stamping and screaming in the portico.
“Lord save us!” says Greville, and stopped dead to see the end of it.
She could not control the beast at first, and they tore madly over the flower-beds, cutting down the dahlias and wreaking ruin among the rose-bushes. The grass flew behind the pounding hoofs, the wild eyes shot flame, and the raging north wind might have been his sire, as he tossed the girl on his mighty back.
“The nymph and the centaur!” says Greville, watching coolly. “I’ll back the nymph, however!”
He did right, though it was even betting as yet, and Sir Harry made matters the worse for her by running yelling down the wide path, the pale grooms at his heels. She did a little more work in the garden for which the gardeners would bless her next day and then she lifted him magnificently over against the great laurel hedge at the bottom. Would he give in to her? Not he, if he knew it! He swerved sharp, and all but tossed her into the green level on the top, then up the garden again. Greville caught Sir Harry’s arm: “You fool, you! Be still, or you’ll kill the woman.”
Down the garden they thundered once more, she riding gloriously, teeth clenched and wild hair flying, and put him at it again, and over, over like a bird in flight, not brushing the topmost leaf with flying hoof.
“Stand clear! I’ve got him!” she screamed, and so off and away in the park, where if she could stick on she could ride him silly, and so they lost sight of her, riding hell for leather.