“I want you to meet my best friends,” he said, stopping before the nearest stall. “Permit me—Lord Chesterfield!”
With approved good manners his Lordship settled his velvet nose in her outstretched hand.
“Chawmed, M’lord,” she smiled. Her wondering eyes went the length of the place.
It was daintily white as a woman’s boudoir, each stall [298] ]bordered in brilliant blue and bearing its occupant’s monogram in the same color. A border of blue ran round the white walls. Even the water buckets and feed boxes were white with horse’s heads painted on them.
There was a rush forward and eager heads poked out as Cunningham went down the line. Satin bodies swaggered, priming themselves for approval.
“No wonder they’re your friends!” Nancy observed. “You treat them so well.”
“Do you think friendship has to be won that way?” he put quickly.
“No. It’s usually given first and earned afterward.”
“That’s not friendship you’re speaking of.” The look he bent on her was disconcerting. Nancy turned to follow a groom who was leading two horses, saddled, toward the run.
A few moments later they swung through the wide doorway into the autumn sunshine. Nancy had never ridden any but academy horses and the sense of the fine, spirited animal under her with his rearing head and shining coat made her blood dance. Flying down the bridle path was like soaring heavenward on Pegasus. Poetry was in the air, in her eyes, in the crack of the gravel under their horses’ feet. The man beside her sat his mount, a bay of sixteen hands, as if part of it. His muscular hands barely touched the reins.