“Sport?” she repeated, coldly.
“Yes.”
“Oh!”
“Quaerts is a Nimrod and a Centaur and a Hercules rolled into one, aren’t you, Quaerts?” said Jules.
“Ah, so you’re ‘naming’ me!” said Quaerts, with a laugh. “Where do you really ‘class’ me?”
“Among the very few people that I really like!” the boy answered, ardently and without hesitation. “Taco, when are you going to teach me to ride?”
“Whenever you like, my son.”
“Yes, but you must fix the day for us to go to the riding-school. I won’t fix a day; I hate fixing days.”
“Well, shall we say to-morrow? To-morrow will be Wednesday.”
“Very well.”