“She is very, very kind, your grandmother,” she said softly, and King-lo saw a mist in her eyes. “I shall love to ride here with you. Come, help me choose,” she bade him as she moved towards the stolid waiting urchins.
Sên King-lo’s face glowed. He was grateful to Sên Ya Tin, and he was grateful to Sên Ruby.
And, seeing them engrossed with soft cashmeres and stout tussores, the master tailor dropped on a surreptitious knee, then squatted squarely on the floor with his feet tucked in beneath him, and studied the fallen jumper eagerly.
“What is it, dear?” Sên asked her presently, when he saw a new perplexity a little wrinkling her forehead.
“Won’t my riding-skirt drive the mare crazy, Lo? You say she has never carried a lady?”
“Nor has she, but,” Sên chuckled, “you forget—Ka’-ka’ has carried many skirts—quite as long ones as the one you wear in the Row.”
His wife turned a sudden painful crimson. She had forgotten for a moment. Was she to ride with her husband riding beside her wearing petticoats?
Lo saw and understood. But he gave no sign and moved quietly to his wife’s writing-table, sat down and found a brush and dipped it.
“What are you going to do?” Mrs. Sên asked as she followed him.
“Make your riding-habit,” King-lo told her.