She rode on beside him; they were walking their horses now; and as her
silken-coated mount paced forward through the sunshine she sat at ease,
straight as a slender Amazon in her habit, ruddy hair glistening at the
nape of her neck, the scarlet of her lips always a vivid contrast to
that wonderful unblemished skin of snow.

He thought to himself, quite impersonally: "She's a real beauty, that
youngster. No wonder they ask her to dance and nobody is horrid. Men are
likely enough to go quite mad about her as Nina predicts: probably some
of 'em have already--that chuckle-headed youth who was there Tuesday,
gulping up the tea--" And, "What was his name?" he asked aloud.

"Whose name?" she inquired, roused by his voice from smiling
retrospection.

"That chuckle head--the young man who continued to haunt you so
persistently when you poured tea for Nina on Tuesday. Of course they
_all_ haunted you," he explained politely, as she shook her head in sign
of non-comprehension; "but there was one who--ah--gulped at his cup."

"Please--you are rather dreadful, aren't you?"

"Yes. So was he; I mean the infatuated chinless gentleman whose facial
ensemble remotely resembled the features of a pleased and placid lizard
of the Reptilian period."

"Oh, George Fane! That is particularly disagreeable of you, Captain
Selwyn, because his wife has been very nice to me--Rosamund Fane--and
she spoke most cordially of you--"