"That was lovely of you. And how clever to escape the bore of writing all those hateful notes! That was just like you, Lydia."
"I know a girl who wrote two hundred, and the day they were ready to be sent out changed her mind. I don't wish to run the risk. Here comes Mr. Marcy."
Fannie Cole gave her hand an ecstatic squeeze and they lifted their heads to meet the common enemy, man. It was time to start, and he was solicitous lest something were wrong with Miss Arnold's saddle girths.
"Beauty in distress?" he murmured with a tug at his mustache. Marcy had his commonplace saws, like most of us.
Mrs. Cole was opening her mouth to reassure him on that score when she was forestalled by Lydia.
"That's a question, Mr. Marcy, which can be more easily answered a year or two hence."
Marcy bowed low in his saddle. "At your pleasure, of course. I did not come to pry." At his best Marcy had quick perceptions and could put two and two together. He was assisted to the divination that something was in the wind by catching sight at the moment of Herbert Maxwell's countenance. That worthy had been blocked in his progress by pretty Mrs. Baxter, who, having resented his attempt to squeeze past her by the following remark, had barred his way with her horse's flank.
"We all know where you are heading, Mr. Maxwell, but as a punishment for endeavoring to shove me aside you must pay toll by talking to me for a little."