"Nobody would," I said. "Only a snarling old wretch would say
so, just because he thought it smart."
There was a long pause. Then Miss Phaeton asked me abruptly:
"You never met him, did you?"
"No."
A pause ensued. We passed the Duchess again, and scratched the
nose of her poodle, which was looking out of the carriage window.
Miss Phaeton flicked Rhino, and the groom behind went plop-plop
on the seat.
"He lives in town, you know," remarked Miss Phaeton.
"They mostly do--and write about the country," said I.
"Why shouldn't they?" she asked fiercely.
"My dear Miss Phaeton, by all means let them," said I.
"He's awfully clever, you know," she continued; "but he wouldn't
always talk. Sometimes he just sat and said nothin', or read a
book."
A sudden intuition discovered Mr. Gay's feelings to me.
"You were talking about the run, or something, I suppose?"
"Yes, or the bag, you know."
As she spoke she pulled up Ready and Rhino. The little groom
jumped down and stood under (not at) their heads. I leant back
and surveyed the crowd sitting and walking. Miss Phaeton flicked
a fly off Rhino's ear, put her whip in the socket, and leant
back also.
"Then I suppose you didn't care much about him?" I asked.
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