Her long damp evening rambles—rambles on which a mother would have put so decided a veto—have brought back Miss Craven's cold. She has been hoarse all day; and it is a well-known fact that hoarseness always becomes worse towards night: a tiresome little tickling cough interrupts her every moment. Add to which, her attention is completely distracted from the subject in hand by the involuntary and vain effort to catch what Mr. Gerard and his love are saying to one another. She would hardly have been repaid for her trouble had she succeeded.
"Had you a good run to-day?"
"Yes, rather a quick thing."
"Which horse did you ride?"
"The grey—one you have not seen. I bought her in Ireland of Brownrigg; he required more of a weight-carrier."
"Does she seem likely to prove satisfactory?"
"Very: she has a good turn of speed, jumps capitally, and is very temperate."
"Was it a large field?"
"Middling."
"Any one you knew?"