"Come out," he whispered in beguiling tones. "Come out and play."
No answer.
"Come and play horsey. Don't you want to climb up? That's it. Up she goes! Steady now. Hold tight."
As he started on a slow tour of the room on all fours his rider lurched unsteadily.
"Take hold of my collar," cried the aged war-horse.
Ayleesabet fell forward, her arms went around his neck and her hands buried themselves in his whiskers. With a chirrup of delight she righted herself, a bridle-rein of hair in each hand. On went the charger, his speed increasing from a walk to an amble. Louder and louder laughed Elisabeth. Steed and rider were in that perfect accord wherein man seems akin to the Centaur.
At the height of the race the drawing room door opened and in walked Ethel Blue and Ethel Brown Morton. The horse stopped suddenly and wiped his forehead with one of his forefeet, but maintained his horizontal position in order not to throw his rider. Elisabeth's equilibrium was somewhat disturbed by the abrupt cessation of her charger's advance but she kept a firm hold on her bridle and restored herself.
"Go, go," she chortled, thumping the prostrate form of Mr. Clark with her slippered feet and smiling with excusable vanity at the new arrivals.
The Ethels stood side by side so stricken with amazement and amusement that for an instant it seemed that apoplexy would overtake them. Thanks to their natural politeness they did not laugh, though they agreed later that it had been the hardest struggle of their lives not to do so.
"We've come to take Ayleesabet home," they said. "It's awfully good of you to entertain her so long."