“That little Estabrook mare has good wind; I never tried her in the snow before. There’s zip in her legs, all right.”
“It was a good idea of yours, the sleigh-ride. I wish I had your knack of telling a horse from a goat. The beasts they always sell me wouldn’t make good glue.”
“Um.”
A proper interval was necessary to set the mare apart from other subjects, and they played with their glasses.
“She’s a little brittle—‘Fragile; handle with care,’” remarked Walsh presently.
Wingfield blinked behind his glasses.
“That mare—oh, no, I see!”
“That woman up there. She’s like glass—bright, tolerably transparent, and easily smashed.”
“I don’t know about her being so transparent. It seems to me she’s pretty clever—a little subtle, maybe. She doesn’t seem to have been anybody in particular, yet she landed the Colonel with an artificial fly.”
Walsh shook his head.