Exquisite picture of strength and beauty superbly
modelled: the horses’ glossy coats glinting
all a polished chestnut’s hues; the perfect
artistry and symmetry of slender limbs, and glorious,
arching necks, and noble heads, and velvet muzzles;
the dazzling bits and chains and buckles; the glinting
bridles, reins and saddles; Lord Tybar’s exquisitely
poised figure, so perfectly maintaining and carrying
up the symmetry of his horse as to suggest the horse
would be disfigured, truncated, were he to dismount;
his taking swagger, his gay, fine face; and she....
An incantation: jingle of bits mouthed in those
velvet muzzles; a hoof pawed sharply on the road;
swish of long, restless tails; creaking of saddlery;
and sudden bursts of all the instruments in unison
when heads were tossed and shaken. Remotely the
whirr of a reaping machine. And somewhere birds....
Pretty!
Greetings had been exchanged; his apologies for his
blundering descent upon them laughed at. Lord
Tybar was saying, “Well, it’s a tiger of
a place, this Garden Home of yours, Sabre—”
“It’s not mine,” said Sabre.
“God forbid.”
“Ah, you’ve not got the same beautiful
local patriotism that I have. It’s one
of my most elegant qualities, my passionate devotion
to my countryside. That was what that corker
of a vicar of yours, Boom Bagshaw, told me I was when
I wept with joy while he was showing me round.
Yes, and now I’m a patron of the Garden Home
Trust or a governor or a vice-priest or something.
I am really. What is it I am, Nona?”
“You’re a bloated aristocrat and a bloodsucker,”
Nona told him in her clear, fine voice. “And
you’re living on estates which your brutal ancestors
ravaged from the people. That’s what you
are, Tony. I showed it you in the Searchlight
yesterday. And, I say, don’t use ‘elegant’;
that’s mine.”
“Oh, by gad, yes, so I am,” said Lord
Tybar. “Bloodsucker! Good lord, fancy
being a bloodsucker!”
He looked so genuinely rueful and abashed that Sabre
laughed; and then said to Nona, “Why is elegant
‘yours’, Lady Tybar?”
She made a little pouting motion at him with her lips.
“Marko, I wish to goodness you wouldn’t
call me Lady Tybar. Dash it, we’ve called
one another Nona and Marko for about a thousand years,
long before I ever knew Tony. And just because
I’m married—”
“And to a mere loathsome bloodsucker, too,”
Lord Tybar interposed.
“Yes, especially to a bloodsucker. Just
remember to say Nona, will you, otherwise there’ll
be a cruel scene between us. I told you about
it before I went away. You don’t suppose
Tony minds, do you?”
“And Sabre,” said Lord Tybar, “what
the devil does it matter what a bloated robber minds,
anyway? That’s the way to look at me, Sabre.
Trample me underfoot, my boy. I’m a pestilent
survivor of the feudal system, aren’t I, Nona?”
