"No," answered Emile, "I shall be busy. Besides, the Royalties will be safer if I'm not there! We don't trouble ourselves about these particular ones though. They're not important enough."
"I'm sorry you're not coming," Arithelli answered.
Emile ungratefully disregarded the implied compliment, and threw out a blunt, "Why?"
"I don't quite know. I think there is going to be something unlucky."
"You're going to tumble off, you mean? Better not! You don't want to get turned out, do you?"
Arithelli turned to a mirror on the wall.
"Do I look very ghastly?" she asked.
"Not much more than usual. None of us look very fresh out here, do we? Do you think your hat is on straight, you untidy little trollop? Well, it isn't! Hurry up,—it's late. No, I'm not going down there with you. I'll stay here, and do some writing."
The rehearsal that morning seemed interminable. For the first time since she had ridden in public Arithelli bungled over her tricks. She jumped short, miscalculated distances, and once barely saved herself from a severe fall.
The ring-master, with whom she was a great favourite, shook his head reproachfully at her, as he paused to rest and wipe his heated countenance. He was a greasy and affable personage, whose temper was as easy as his morals. He was more soft-hearted than most of his compatriots, and he honestly liked Arithelli and admired her riding.