Miss Phaeton was sitting bolt upright; she fidgeted with the
reins; she took her whip out of the socket and put it back again;
and, to my amazement, her cheeks were very red.

Presently the man came opposite the carriage. Miss Phaeton
bowed. He lifted his hat, smiled, and made as if to pass on.
Miss Phaeton held out her hand. I could see a momentary gleam of
surprise in his eyes, as though he thought her cordiality more
than he might have looked for--possibly even more than he cared
about. But he stopped and shook hands.

"How are you, Mr. Gay?" she said, not introducing me.

"Still with your inseparables!" he said gayly, with a wave of his
hand towards the horses. "I hope, Miss Phaeton, that in the next
world your faithful steeds will be allowed to bear you company,
or what will you do?"

"O, you think I care for nothin' but horses?" said she
petulantly, but she leant towards him, and gave me her shoulder.

"O, no," he laughed. "Dogs, also, and, I'm afraid, one day it
was ferrets, wasn't it?"

"Have--have you written any poetry lately?" she asked.

"How conscientious of you to inquire!" he exclaimed, his eyes
twinkling. "O, yes, a hundred things. Have
you--killed--anything lately?"