I positively felt sorry for her. At her age there was no knowing what effect the shock might have on her. I scrambled to my feet and confronted her.
“Major Yeates!” she said. There was a deathly pause. “Will you kindly tell me,” said Mrs. Knox, slowly, “am I in Bedlam, or are you? And what is that?”
She pointed to the colt, and the unfortunate animal, recognising the voice of his mistress, uttered a hoarse and lamentable whinny. Mrs. Knox felt around her for support, found only furze prickles, gazed speechlessly at me, and then, to her eternal honour, fell into wild cackles of laughter.
So, I may say, did Flurry and I. I embarked on my explanation and broke down. Flurry followed suit and broke down, too. Overwhelming laughter held us all three, disintegrating our very souls. Mrs. Knox pulled herself together first.
“I acquit you, Major Yeates, I acquit you, though appearances are against you. It’s clear enough to me you’ve fallen among thieves.” She stopped and glowered at Flurry. Her purple bonnet was over one eye. “I’ll thank you, sir,” she said, “to dig out that horse before I leave this place. And when you’ve dug him out you may keep him. I’ll be no receiver of stolen goods!”
She broke off and shook her fist at him. “Upon my conscience, Tony, I’d give a guinea to have thought of it myself!”
The Wee Tea Table.