Kate Coventry | Page 8

often and often. The picture over my chimney-piece
does not half do him justice; but then, to be sure, its pendant, painted
by the same artist, and representing my other horse, White Stockings,
flatters that very plain and excellent animal most unblushingly.
Of all delights in the world give me my morning canter up the park on
Brilliant. Away we go, understanding each other perfectly; and I am
quite sure that he enjoys as much as I do the bright sunshine and the
morning breeze and the gleaming Serpentine, with its solitary swan,
and its hungry ducks, and its amphibious dogs continually swimming
for the inciting stick, only rescued to produce fresh exertions; and the
rosy children taking their morning walk; and, above all, the liberty of
London before two o'clock in the day, when the real London begins. I
pat Brilliant's smooth, hard neck, and he shakes his head, and strikes an
imaginary butterfly with one black fore-leg, and I draw my rein a
thought tighter, and away we go, much to the admiration of that

good-looking man with moustachios who is leaning on his umbrella
close to the rails, and smoking the cigar of meditation as if the park was
his own.
I often wondered who that man was. Morning after morning have I seen
him at the same place, always with an umbrella, and always with a
cigar. I quite missed him on the Derby day, when of course he was
gone to Epsom (by-the-bye, why don't we go to the Derby just as much
as to Ascot?); and yet it was rather a relief, too, for I had got almost shy
about passing him. It seemed so absurd to see the man every day and
never to speak; besides, I fancied, though of course it could only be
fancy, that he looked as if he was expecting me. At last I couldn't help
blushing, and I thought he saw it; for I'm sure he smiled, and then I was
so provoked with myself that I sent Brilliant up the ride at a pace
nothing short of a racehorse could have caught.
CHAPTER III.
I wonder whether any lady in England has a maid who, to use that
domestic's own expression, is capable of "giving satisfaction." If any
lady does rejoice in such an Abigail, I shall be too happy to "swap"
with her, and give anything else I possess except Brilliant into the
bargain. Mine is the greatest goose that ever stood upon two legs, and
how she can chatter as she does with her mouth full of pins is to me a
perfect miracle. Once or twice in the week I have to endure a certain
ordeal which, although a positive pleasure to some women, is to my
disposition intense martyrdom, termed dressing to go out; and I think I
never hated it more than the night of Lady Horsingham's ball. Lady
Horsingham is my poor uncle's widow; and as Aunt Deborah is
extremely punctilious on all matters relating to family connections, we
invariably attend these solemnities with a gravity befitting the occasion.
Now, I may be singular in my ideas; but I confess that it does appear to
me a strange way of enjoying oneself in the dog-days, to make one's
toilette at eleven p.m., for the purpose of sitting in a carriage till twelve,
and struggling on a staircase amongst a mob of one's fellow-creatures
till half-past. After fighting one's way literally step by step, and gaining

a landing by assault, one looks round and takes breath, and what does
one see? Panting girls looking in vain for the right partner, who is
probably not ten yards from them, but wedged in between substantial
dowagers, whom he is cursing in his heart, but from whom there is no
escape; or perhaps philosophically and perfidiously making the best of
his unavoidable situation, and flirting shamefully with the one he likes
next best to the imprisoned maiden on the staircase; or, the tables
turned, young fledglings pining madly for their respective enslavers,
and picturing to themselves how she may be even now whirling round
to that pealing waltz in the arms of some former adorer or delightfully
new acquaintance, little heeding him who is languishing in his white
neckcloth, actually within speaking distance, but separated as
effectually as if he were in another country. By-the-bye, it's fatal when
people begin to think of each other as hes and shes; the softest proper
name that ever was whispered is not half so dangerous as those
demonstrative pronouns. In one corner is a stout old gentleman,
wedged against the wall, wiping the drops from his bald head, and
wondering what Jane and Julia can see in these gatherings to make
them wild about going to every ball for which