"You had better turn back with us, St. John," suggests Constance, graciously.
"No, thanks; much too hot!"
"Au revoir, then," nodding her head and her tall hat, and about a million flies that are promenading on it, gracefully.
Esther's fears vanish.
"Three is no company," she says in a low voice, and making rather a plaintive little face as he passes her.
Drawn by the magnet that has succeeded in drawing to itself most things that it wished—viz., a woman's inviting eyes—he turns the cob's head sharp round.
"But four is," he answers, with an eager smile, putting his horse alongside of hers.
She was rather compunctious the moment she had said it. It is reversing the order of things—the woman after the man; "the haystack after the cow;" as the homely old proverb says.
The road is broad, and for a little while they all four jog on abreast, as in a Roman chariot-race or a city omnibus—rather a dreary squadron.
"This is very dull," thinks Esther. "Oh! if I could lose my handkerchief, or my veil, or my gloves! Why cannot I drop my whip?"