"You all right?" he asked.
"Rather. Don't bother to hold the reins, please. I'm really quite used to it."
Dubiously he let her go. Just to show her independence, she touched the mare lightly with her whip. It started.
"Steady, steady, old girl. Ride her on the snaffle, Miss Hammond. Her mouth's awfully sensitive. She won't stand the curb."
Curbs and snaffles were all the same to Connie. These slippery, writhing strips of leather slid through her hands as the mare tossed her head. She struggled to arrange them to her satisfaction. In another minute Mr. Neale might say, "Don't you think that we had better turn?" and back they would go to that awful drawing-room and to Clare's easy triumph.
Connie sat straight, her red, wind-blown head high. The reins slipped in her left hand, but her right held Clare's riding-crop. She would show them that even if she could not ride like Clare she too was a sportswoman.
Again she flicked her whip. The mare broke into an uneasy trot, shaking Connie up and down in the unfamiliar saddle.
"Hold hard," called Godfrey, stretching out his hand for the slack rein.
"It's all right. This is splendid," cried Connie and, with set teeth, gave the mare another cut.
The mare shuddered. For one moment Connie felt the earth rise to meet her. Then she was suddenly jolted down into the saddle. The shaking trot gave place to a rhythmical rise and fall, the wind brushed past her, touching her wide bright eyes, her flying hair, and Connie was away at full gallop down the drive.