“There is no fear of that while I ride young horses, the danger is an old one. My father taught me to ride, and as he was one of the best cross-country riders in Dorset I am not likely to make a mistake. You had better try that sole Normande; it is one of the Medlow specialities.”
“Juliet, I hate the idea of your staying in this house—or in any house where there is a crowd of fast men. I hate the idea of your riding men’s horses—of your being under an obligation to a stranger——”
“Don’t I tell you that the obligation is all the other way. A young hunter is a more saleable article when he has carried a lady. ‘Will suit a bold horsewoman in a stiff country.’ That sort of thing is worth a great deal in a catalogue, and the men whose horses I ride are not strangers.”
“At the most they are casual acquaintances.”
“Call them that if you like. Why should not one profit by one’s acquaintances?”
“There is one of your benefactors looking at you at this moment, and looking as if he objected to my talking to you.”
“How dare you talk about my benefactors? Do you suppose I had you invited to Medlow in order that you might insult me?”
This little dialogue was conducted in subdued tones, but with a good deal of acrimony upon either side. Harrington was bursting with jealousy.
The house, the men, the very atmosphere awakened distrust. He detested those men for their square shoulders and soldierly bearing, for the suggestion of cavalry or household brigade which seemed to him to pervade the masculine portion of the assembly. He had always hated military men. Their chief mission in life seemed to be to make civilians look insignificant.
Miss Baldwin ate the next entrée in stony silence, and it was not till he had abjectly apologized for his offensive speech that her lover was again taken into favour. She relented at last, however, and favoured him with a good deal of information about the house party which made such a brilliant show at Lady Burdenshaw’s luxurious board.