"I was staying at the Warburtons' last month, and one day when
driving their abominable ponies along the road, suddenly the little
beasts took fright and bolted. You know the Warburtons, don't you?
They haven't an ounce of manners between them--themselves, or their
ponies, or anything else belonging to them. Well! They tore along as
if possessed----"

"The Warburtons?"

"No, the ponies; don't be silly?"

"_Such_ a relief!"

"And I really think they would have taken me over a precipice. You
can see"--holding out her exquisite little hands--"how inadequate
these would be to deal with the Warburton ponies. But for the timely
help of an elderly gentleman and a young girl--she looked a mere
child----"

"This Miss Bolton?"

"Yes. The old gentleman caught the ponies' heads--so did the girl.
You know my slender wrists--they were almost powerless from the
strain, but that _girl!_ her wrists seemed made of iron. She held
and held, until the little wretches gave way and returned to a sense
of decency."

"Perhaps they _are_ made of iron. Her people are in trade, you say?
It is iron, or buttons, or what?"