[296]
] “So you’ve met,” whispered Ted, as Nancy returned his bow over the plumes of her black feather fan.
“Yes, to-night. J. C. brought him back.” And added casually: “He’s asked me to make up my own party for supper some night. Will you come?”
“I will that!” rejoined Thorne. “But before it happens, I’ll ask you to marry me.”
“Don’t be a goose, Ted,” she laughed—and wondered why a frown replaced for a flash the twinkle in the sharp eyes behind Thorne’s glasses. They smiled again as he raised his champagne.
“Here’s to you, Nancy girl—and the future. May it be a knock-out for you always!”
Cunningham, however, did not wait for the date she had set. The following night he sent word to the theater, inviting her to ride next day. He had his horses in town for the Show and wanted her to try his pet stallion. His messenger would wait for an answer.
There was a tone of assumption in the brief note that Nancy resented. She couldn’t tell exactly where nor what it was but she had a feeling that, though couched in terms of invitation, it had been written with the assurance that she would not refuse. At first she was tempted to, but anxiety to see his horses—at least that explanation she gave herself—made her compromise by writing that he might telephone her in the morning.
By the time he called her, she had on her habit and half an hour later glided uptown in his car. Through the park, fairly purring as it sped over the smooth roads, it veered West and out at a street in the Sixties and pulled up before what appeared to be a two-story house. [297] ]Potted dwarf firs stood at either side of the big arched door on a level with the street. Across the front above it were three windows, each with its green window box from which ivy trailed over the dull red brick. A saucy little building it was in the midst of drab flat houses, like a French cocotte dropped by mistake into a New England village.
Nancy gazed, puzzled and curious, when the heavy iron-hinged door was drawn back and she stepped into the unmistakable pungent odor of the stable.
Cunningham came to meet her. His hands, tingling with vitality, sent a glow through hers as he held them an instant. Then he led the way toward the rear. The floor was covered with a sort of porous rubber that gave to the step and Nancy felt an absurd inclination to bound into the air as she walked. Along the walls were cases filled with blue, red and yellow ribbons, each rosette with its streamers as dear to the sportsman as if it had been pinned upon him instead of an equine representative. Prints of blue ribboners with famous jockeys up hung between the cases. Several of the originals stamped at that moment in the stalls downstairs. Cunningham helped her down the run.