"Alain, get a horse saddled for M. Odiot.... Which do you suggest, Marguerite?"
"Give him Proserpine," whispered M. de Bévallan maliciously.
"Oh, no! not Proserpine," declared Marguerite.
"And why not Proserpine?" I asked.
"Because she'd throw you," said the girl frankly.
"Oh, would she? Really? May I ask, mademoiselle, if you ride her?"
"Yes, I do, but she gives me some trouble."
"Oh, well, perhaps she'll give you less when I've ridden her once or twice! That decides me. Have Proserpine saddled, Alain."
Mlle. Marguerite's dark eyebrows contracted as she sat down with a gesture that disclaimed all responsibility for the catastrophe she foresaw.
"If you want spurs," said M. de Bévallan, who evidently did not mean me to return alive, "I have a pair at your service."