"That is tantamount to saying you are glad I have lamed my horse. I should be on the other side of Andover, in one of the best runs of the season, if it were not for that fact. When one is thrown out, the run is always quite the best—or so one's friends tell one afterwards."
"I am sorry for your horse. I hope he isn't much hurt?"
"I don't know. Lameness in a horse is generally an impenetrable mystery. One only knows that he is lame. The stable will find half a dozen theories to account for it, and the vet will find a seventh, and very likely they may all be wrong. I'll walk with you to the high-road at least."
"And give the poor horse extra work. Not for the world!"
"Then I'll take him on till I am within halloo of the stables, and then come back to you, if you'll walk on very slowly."
"Pray don't! I am not at all afraid of the dusk."
"Please walk slowly," he answered, looking back at her and hurrying on with his horse.
Suzette was vexed at his persistence; but she did not want to be rude to him, were it only for his mother's sake. How much better it would have been had he gone straight home to cheer that fond mother by his company, instead of wasting his time by walking to Matcham, as he would perhaps insist upon doing.
He looked white and haggard, Suzette thought; but that might only be the effect of the evening light, or it might be that he was tired after a laborious day. She had not much time to think about him. His footsteps sounded on the road behind her. He was running to overtake her. It occurred to her that she might turn this persistence of his to good account. She might talk to him about his mother, and urge him to spend a little more of his time at home, and do a little more to brighten that lonely life.
"I met one of the lads," he said, "and got rid of that poor brute."