Plainly the signals were not directed at her husband, who had halted to stoop and pass a hand over old Jubilee's near hind pastern, and in a manner almost more than professional.

Sam advanced, in some wonder.

Mrs.Mortimer reached down a shapely hand for the pan-handle, leaned as she did so, and murmured-- "You will not lend money to Stanislas?
He is apt, when the world goes ill with him, to seek distraction, to behave unconventionally.

It is not a question of drowning his cares, for the least little drop acting upon his artistic temperament--" But at this moment her husband, having concluded his inspection of the grey, called out to be given a leg-up, and Sam hurried back to oblige.
"Thank you.

Time was, Smiles, when with hand laid lightly on the crupper, I could have vaulted." Overcome by these reminiscences, Mr.Mortimer let his chin sink, his legs dangle, and rode forward a pace or two in the classical attitude of the Last Survivor from Cabul; but anon looked up with set jaw and resolution in his eye, took a grip with his knees, and challenged-- "Give a man a horse he can ride, Give a man a boat he can sail, And his something or other--I forget the exact expression-- On sea nor shore shall fail!" -- "Fling wide the gate, Smiles!" He was now the Dashing Cavalier, life-sized.