“Thanks, so much,” said Gwendolen, a little out of breath and startled. “If you hadn’t been there he’d have bolted. He’s got a mouth like iron and he simply pulls my arms out.”
“Are you quite sure you’re safe now?” asked Canon Spratte, anxiously.
The horse was still nervous and refused to stand still.
“He’ll probably bolt with me, but I must risk it,” she laughed, trying to show no concern.
“Let me tighten the curb a little, and then you’ll be as safe as a house.” With deft fingers he undid the chain and altered it. “You know, you really ought not to ride alone.”
“A groom bores me, and there’s no one else to come.”
“I shall ride with you to-morrow,” he answered. “I don’t think you should be left to your own devices. Now I think you’re in no danger.”
She thanked him effusively and trotted quickly off. The Canon resumed his promenade somewhat pleased with the action: he was grateful for the smallest incident that served to restore his diminished self-esteem. He was turning round to go home when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Sir John Durant.
“I’ve just seen Gwendolen. She tells me you saved her from a nasty accident.”
“Oh, it was nothing. I happened to be near.”