THE RIDING LESSON.
Phillida arrived up to time with her suit-case, a riding-crop and a large copy of D'Aulnoy's Fairy Tales. She was not very communicative as we drove out, and I sought to draw her. You never, by the way, talk down to Phillida. Personally, I don't believe in talking down to any child; but to employ this method with Phillida is to court disaster.
"Pleasant journey?" I inquired casually, flicking Rex's ear.
"'M," responded Phillida in the manner of a child sucking sweets. Phillida was not sucking sweets, and I accepted my snub. We drove on for a bit in silence. Phillida removed her hat, and her bobbed hair went all round her head like a brown busby. I looked round and was embarrassed to find the straight grey eyes fixed on my face, the expression in them almost rapturous.
"Jolly country, isn't it?" I essayed hurriedly, with a comprehensive wave of my whip.
The preoccupied "'M" was repeated with even less emphasis.
Another protracted silence. I decided not to interfere with the course of nature as manifested in one small grey-eyed maiden of eight. Presently there burst from her ecstatically, "Uncle Dick, is this the one I'm going to ride?" So that was it. From that moment we got on splendidly. We discussed, agreed and disagreed over breeds, paces, sizes. I told her the horse she would ride would be twice the size of Rex, and she nearly fell out of the trap when I said we might go together that very afternoon.
"I've not learned to gallop," she remarked with some reluctance; "but of course you could teach me."
I had only heard the vaguest rumours of her riding experience, and she was very mysterious about it herself. However, when she came downstairs at the appointed time, in her brown velvet jockey-cap, top-boots, breeches and gloves complete, she looked so determined and efficient I felt reassured.