Reginald raised his whip, a little unsteadily.
The Chinese man leisurely threw his reins over one arm, the loop of his crop over one finger, leaned lightly a little from his saddle, caught Reginald Hamilton by the arms, and swung him down to the ground—not roughly—setting him square on his feet.
Sên gave the riderless horse an imperative but friendly tap on its flank with his crop, and it started off at a slow trot.
Reginald stood stock-still; purple, spluttering, wordless.
“I hope it’ll find its stable,” Sên said to Ivy lightly. “I daresay it will; they usually do. Shall we walk our horses on, Miss Gilbert?”
They went on in silence, and after a few moments, because he saw how white and cold the girl’s face looked, Sên set a faster pace, and they kept it until, as they passed the Louise Home, Ivy slackened her reins and looked at him with a tinkle and gurgle of girlish laughter, which Sên King-lo, as Sir Charles did, always thought had a sound of China.
He looked at her with a question in his smile.
“I was thinking,” she told him—“I don’t think you’ll mind, we are good friends——”
“The best of friends,” Sên King-lo said gravely, holding his hat in his hand as he spoke.
“I was thinking of your hands, Mr. Sên, and of a silly thing I thought the first time we met—in the summer—at Miss Julia’s——”