“Have you gone riding any more since that other time, Sylvia?”
Sylvia hesitated. “‘That other time’” she repeated vaguely.... “Oh, yes, once since then—once or twice. Why?”
“I believe you haven’t mentioned going.”
“Haven’t I? It doesn’t seem a very important thing. I suppose I’ve thought you wouldn’t be interested. I don’t believe you and I look at a horseback-ride alike. I think perhaps you regard it as quite an event.”
He pondered that deliberately. “You’re right,” he said. “And ... about paying for the horse. I’m afraid your allowance isn’t liberal enough to cover such things. I must increase it next month. Have you been paying out of your own pocket?”
“Yes—yes, of course. It amounts to very little.”
His sombre glance travelled across the table to her. She was looking at her plate. She had the appearance of a child encountering a small obstacle in the way of a coveted pleasure. There was neither guilt nor alarm in her bearing, but only an irksome discomfort.
But old Antonia withdrew farther within the kitchen. She took her place under a picture of the Virgin and murmured a little prayer.