“What's the trouble, then?” he asked. And he took an instant's hold of her chin—a habit he had—and smiled at her.
He little knew how sublime, in its unconscious effrontery, his question was! She tried to compose herself, that she might be able to present comprehensively to his finite masculine mind the ache of today.
“Hugh, it's that black horse.” She could not bring herself to pronounce the name Mrs. Rindge had christened him.
“What about him?” he said, putting on his waistcoat.
“Don't ride him!” she pleaded. “I—I'm afraid of him—I've been afraid of him ever since that day.
“It may be a foolish feeling, I know. Sometimes the feelings that hurt women most are foolish. If I tell you that if you ride him you will torture me, I'm sure you'll grant what I ask. It's such a little thing and it means so much—so much agony to me. I'd do anything for you—give up anything in the world at your slightest wish. Don't ride him!”
“This is a ridiculous fancy of yours, Honora. The horse is all right. I've ridden dozens of worse ones.”
“Oh, I'm sure he isn't,” she cried; “call it fancy, call it instinct, call it anything you like—but I feel it, Hugh. That woman—Mrs. Rindge—knows something about horses, and she said he was a brute.”
“Yes,” he interrupted, with a short laugh, “and she wants to ride him.”
“Hugh, she's reckless. I—I've been watching her since she came here, and I'm sure she's reckless with—with a purpose.”