"Oh, Connie," began Muriel's shocked voice.
"Do you ride, Miss Hammond? I'm so sorry. I thought that you didn't. I would have found you a mount," lied Godfrey.
"I used to ride a lot before Father had his accident and would not let us any more."
The story was well known in Marshington, where picturesque incidents were not common. Here was a trouble that Mrs. Neale could understand.
"If she really wants to, let her have a trot down the drive while I order tea."
"Connie, you can't. You can't really," protested Muriel. To have stormed successfully the Neale citadel, to have come creditably through the ordeal of the drawing-room, and then for Connie to behave like this, was too bad.
But Connie was determined. The dogged look which Mrs. Hammond knew well upon her husband's face had descended upon Connie.
As for Godfrey, he had no desire to ride with a lumpish schoolgirl after that wonderful afternoon, and yet even he felt a slight compunction at the way in which he had used the two Hammond girls. He knew the glacial atmosphere of his mother's drawing-room.
"But she hasn't a habit or anything," Muriel pleaded.
"That doesn't matter. I have often ridden without," laughed Clare. "Here, take my whip."