“Gwendolen, will you be my wife?”
She looked up with a little laugh that was almost hysterical. She did not answer directly.
“I’ll race you to the end,” she said.
Without a word, smiling, the Canon put the spurs to his horse; and they galloped up the Row at a speed which was altogether beyond reason. The policeman on his beat watched with gaping mouth the strange spectacle of a comely young woman and an ecclesiastical dignitary, no longer in his first youth but handsome too, peltering towards the Achilles Statue as fast as they could go. Gwendolen’s horse kept somewhat ahead, but the Canon would not give way. Again he clapped his spurs to the straining flanks. It seemed to him, romantically, that he rode for a great prize, and in his excitement he could have shouted at the top of his voice. They reached the end neck and neck, and when they stopped, panting, the horses were white with lather. There was no longer a shadow of humility in the Canon’s breezy manner.
“And now for my answer,” he cried, gaily.
“What about Lionel?” she smiled, blushing.
“Oh, Lionel can go to the dickens.”
Canon Spratte frequently said that he was unaccustomed to let grass grow under his feet. Having left Gwendolen at the door, he returned to the Vicarage, changed his clothes, and promptly took a cab back to Park Lane. But he found that she had been before him, and Sir John Durant was already in possession of the happy news.
“Upon my soul, I don’t know what you’ve done to the girl,” he said, in his hearty, boisterous tone. “She’s quite infatuated.”
The Canon laughed and rubbed his hands.