The Green Mouse | Page 3

still know if he chose; for a man who can
pay for his evening clothes need never deny himself the society he was
bred to.
She certainly did resemble that girl--she had the same bluish violet eyes,
the same white and deeply fringed lids, the same free grace of carriage,
a trifle too boyish at times--the same firmly rounded, yet slender,
figure.
"Now, as a matter of fact," he mused aloud, stroking the sleeping
squirrel on his knee, "I could have fallen in love with either of those
girls--before Copper blew up."
Pursuing his innocuous meditation he nodded to himself: "I rather like
the poor one better than any girl I ever saw. Doubtless she paints
portraits over solar prints. That's all right; she's doing more than I have
done yet.... I approve of those eyes of hers; they're like the eyes of that
waking Aphrodite in the Luxembourg. If she would only just look at
me once instead of looking through me when we pass one another in
the hall----"
The deadened gallop of a horse on the bridle path caught his ear. The
horse was coming fast--almost too fast. He laid the sleeping squirrel on

the bench, listened, then instinctively stood up and walked to the
thicket's edge.
What happened was too quick for him to comprehend; he had a vision
of a big black horse, mane and tail in the wind, tearing madly, straight
at him--a glimpse of a white face, desperate and set, a flutter of
loosened hair; then a storm of wind and sand roared in his ears; he was
hurled, jerked, and flung forward, dragged, shaken, and left half
senseless, hanging to nose and bit of a horse whose rider was picking
herself out of a bush covered with white flowers.
Half senseless still, he tightened his grip on the bit, released the grasp
on the creature's nose, and, laying his hand full on the forelock, brought
it down twice and twice across the eyes, talking to the horse in halting,
broken whispers.
When he had the trembling animal under control he looked around; the
girl stood on the grass, dusty, dirty, disheveled, bleeding from a cut on
the cheek bone; the most bewildered and astonished creature he had
ever looked upon.
"It will be all right in a few minutes," he said, motioning her to the
bench on the asphalt walk. She nodded, turned, picked up his hat, and,
seating herself, began to smooth the furred nap with her sleeve,
watching him intently all the while. That he already had the confidence
of a horse that he had never before seen was perfectly apparent. Little
by little the sweating, quivering limbs were stilled, the tense muscles in
the neck relaxed, the head sank, dusty velvet lips nibbled at his hand,
his shoulder; the heaving, sunken flanks filled and grew quiet.
Bareheaded, his attire in disorder and covered with slaver and sand, the
young man laid the bridle on the horse's neck, held out his hand, and,
saying "Come," turned his back and walked down the bridle path. The
horse stretched a sweating neck, sniffed, pricked forward both small
ears, and slowly followed, turning as the man turned, up and down,
crowding at heel like a trained dog, finally stopping on the edge of the
walk.

The young man looped the bridle over a low maple limb, and leaving
the horse standing sauntered over to the bench.
"That horse," he said pleasantly, "is all right now; but the question is,
are you all right?"
She rose, handing him his hat, and began to twist up her bright hair. For
a few moments' silence they were frankly occupied in restoring order to
raiment, dusting off gravel and examining rents.
"I'm tremendously grateful," she said abruptly.
"I am, too," he said in that attractive manner which sets people of
similar caste at ease with one another.
"Thank you; it's a generous compliment, considering your hat and
clothing."
He looked up; she stood twisting her hair and doing her best with the
few remaining hair pegs.
"I'm a sight for little fishes," she said, coloring. "Did that wretched
beast bruise you?"
"Oh, no----"
"You limped!"
"Did I?" he said vaguely. "How do you feel?"
"There is," she said, "a curious, breathless flutter all over me; if that is
fright, I suppose I'm frightened, but I don't mind mounting at once-- if
you would put me up----"
"Better wait a bit," he said; "it would not do to have that horse feel a
fluttering pulse, telegraphing along the snaffle. Tell me, are you
spurred?"
She lifted the hem of her habit; two small spurs glittered on her

polished boot heels.
"That's it, you see," he observed; "you probably have not ridden cross
saddle very long. When your mount swerved you spurred,