She rode on beside him; they were walking their horses now; and as her silken-coated mount paced forward through the sunshine she sat at ease, straight as a slender Amazon in her habit, ruddy hair glistening at the nape of her neck, the scarlet of her lips always a vivid contrast to that wonderful unblemished skin of snow.

He thought to himself, quite impersonally:  “She’s a real beauty, that youngster.  No wonder they ask her to dance and nobody is horrid.  Men are likely enough to go quite mad about her as Nina predicts:  probably some of ’em have already—­that chuckle-headed youth who was there Tuesday, gulping up the tea—­” And, “What was his name?” he asked aloud.

“Whose name?” she inquired, roused by his voice from smiling retrospection.

“That chuckle head—­the young man who continued to haunt you so persistently when you poured tea for Nina on Tuesday.  Of course they all haunted you,” he explained politely, as she shook her head in sign of non-comprehension; “but there was one who—­ah—­gulped at his cup.”

“Please—­you are rather dreadful, aren’t you?”

“Yes.  So was he; I mean the infatuated chinless gentleman whose facial ensemble remotely resembled the features of a pleased and placid lizard of the Reptilian period.”

“Oh, George Fane!  That is particularly disagreeable of you, Captain Selwyn, because his wife has been very nice to me—­Rosamund Fane—­and she spoke most cordially of you—­”

“Which one was she?”

“The Dresden china one.  She looks—­she simply cannot look as though she were married.  It’s most amusing—­for people always take her for somebody’s youngest sister who will be out next winter. . . .  Don’t you remember seeing her?”

“No, I don’t.  But there were dozens coming and going every minute whom I didn’t know.  Still, I behaved well, didn’t I?”

“Pretty badly—­to Kathleen Lawn, whom you cornered so that she couldn’t escape until her mother made her go without any tea.”

“Was that the reason that old lady looked at me so queerly?”

“Probably.  I did, too, but you were taking chances, not hints. . . .  She is attractive, isn’t she?”

“Very fetching,” he said, leaning down to examine his stirrup leathers which he had already lengthened twice.  “I’ve got to have Cummins punch these again,” he muttered; “or am I growing queer-legged in my old age?”

As he straightened up, Miss Erroll said:  “Here comes Mr. Fane now—­with a strikingly pretty girl.  How beautifully they are mounted”—­smilingly returning Fane’s salute—­“and she—­oh! so you do know her, Captain Selwyn?  Who is she?”

Crop raised mechanically in dazed salute, Selwyn’s light touch on the bridle had tightened to a nervous clutch which brought his horse up sharply.

“What is it?” she asked, drawing bridle in her turn and looking back into his white, stupefied face.