She saw who it was and turned her head back with an impatient frown on her face but said nothing.
Sên King-lo did not see Reginald Hamilton until Hamilton drew his horse neck and neck with Sên’s.
Hamilton did not lift his hat, and King-lo’s slim fingers tightened slightly on his riding-crop.
Reginald was winded, a little. He was no great horseman, and he had been drinking—though not to excess. It was physical inconvenience and personal emotion that quivered and belched him far more than bourbon and bitters.
“I’ll deal with you later, you yellow, opium-sodden chimpanzee,” he cried thickly, with an insulting motion of his whip. “Be off with you now! I’ll not allow you to ride with this lady. Don’t let me catch you so much as speaking to her again, you vermin-fed laundry whelp! Understand?”
Sên smiled slightly, his eyes perfectly quiet, and turned to the girl beside him.
“Please ride on a little, Miss Gilbert,” he asked easily. “I won’t be a moment.”
“No,” Ivy told him. “I stay with you. Are you going to kill him?”
“In your presence? No, not even whip him—merely set him on his feet. Please go. I’ll be with you almost at once.”
Ivy did not answer him. She had grown very white—but not with fear, not even with nervousness, Sên knew. She sat perfectly still, and she did not move or speak again.