“Fancy your being awkward! Well, all right——”
He looked across the lawn, where Thessalie and Westmore sat together, just outside the tennis court, under a brilliant lawn umbrella.
Oddly enough, the spectacle caused him no subtle pang, although their heads were pretty close together and their mutual absorption in whatever they were saying appeared evident enough.
“Let ’em chatter,” he said after an instant’s hesitation. “Thessa or my sister can ride with you this afternoon when it’s cooler. I suppose you’ll take to the saddle as though born there.”
“Oh, I hope so!”
“Sure thing. All Irish girls—of your quality—take to it.”
“My—quality?”
“Yours.... It’s merely happened so,” he added irrelevantly, “—but the contrary couldn’t have mattered ... as long as you are you! Nothing else matters one way or another. You are you: that answers all questions, fulfils all requirements——”
“I don’t quite understand what you say, Garry!”