“It's a swelling,” he said innocently.
Brent threw back his head and laughed.
“You haven't got it anyway, Warry,” he cried.
Mr. Trowbridge, who resembled a lean and greying Irish terrier, maintained that he had.
“It's a pity you don't ride, Lula. I understand that that's one of the best preventives—for gout. I bought a horse last week that would just suit you—an ideal woman's horse. He's taken a couple of blue ribbons this summer.”
“I hope you will show him to us, Mr. Brent,” exclaimed Honora, in a spirit of kindness.
“Do you ride?” he demanded.
“I'm devoted to it,” she declared.
It was true. For many weeks that spring, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, she had gone up from Rivington to Harvey's Riding Academy, near Central Park. Thus she had acquired the elements of the equestrian art, and incidentally aroused the enthusiasm of a riding-master.
After Mrs. Chandos had smoked three of the cigarettes which her host specially imported from Egypt, she declared, with no superabundance of enthusiasm, that she was ready to go and see what Trixy had in the “stables.” In spite of that lady's somewhat obvious impatience, Honora insisted upon admiring everything from the monogram of coloured sands so deftly woven on the white in the coach house, to the hunters and polo ponies in their rows of boxes. At last Vercingetorix, the latest acquisition of which Brent had spoken, was uncovered and trotted around the ring.