so piercing and so steadfast. And there was a Napoleonic suggestion about his firm mouth and chin—a certain combined sweetness and dignity and resolution—a fire and force in the expression of his features and the carriage of his head. Very handsome. But a great deal more than handsome.
"I can feel that it is swelling," she said in deep distress, taking away her hand. "It ought to be bathed and seen to at once, or you will be horribly bruised. I don't know what to do. Shall I run up to the house and send the black boy for your horse? You can't lead it like that. It hurts you every time it tugs. Give me the bridle. What's its name?"
"His name—oh," he paused and laughed rather oddly though—"he's called Osman. No, you couldn't hold him. He's a young horse, and there's something up with him today. I was off guard or he wouldn't have shied at you like that. I can't think what startled him."
"It was I. I threw some of these things at him," she twitched off a ti-flower. "I threw it at you—at you—at least I threw it"—she laughed nervously, "at Mr. Frank Hallett."
"I am sorry for your sake that I am not Mr. Frank Hallett."
"You needn't be sorry. Will he stand?" Blake had strapped his horse round a sapling.
"Yes, I'll just wait a minute or two, if you don't mind, till the twinge has gone off. Then I'll get on to Baròlin."
"Oh, won't you come up to the house and have it seen to? My sister will be pleased."
"Your sister?"
"Lady Horace Gage. I am Miss Valliant, I am staying with her."
"Yes, I heard that." Mr. Blake made her a bow. "I beg your pardon for having frightened you."
"Oh, it isn't—I mean it was all my fault. Please come up to the Humpey!"
"I don't think I ought to do that. You see Lord Horace
