Mrs. Thompson: A Novel

by W. B. Maxwell

Mr. Young snorted angrily, and disappeared. The strange young man assisted Miss Enid to dismount and went out with her, the bandaged mare following them with the helper.

"Who," asked Marsden, "was that spindle-shanked ass?"

"Oh, he's not a bad boy," said the riding-master patronisingly. "And he can ride, mind you—which is more than most hunting men can."

"Is he a hunting man? What's his name?"

"Mr. Kenion.... Look here, don't hurry off. I want to have a yarn with you."

"But Mr. Young—"

"Oh, blast Mr. Young. I want to talk to you, my boy, about the ladies."

"Do you?" Marsden half closed his eyes, and showed his strong teeth in a lazy smile. "What do you think of our young lady?"

"Miss Thompson?" Mr. Whitehouse shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, not bad."

Then long thin Mr. Kenion returned.