"I liked it! They were better-looking than these boys.
Annette, do you remember that day two years ago when I took you to that riding competition--what did they call it ?--that gymkhana--in the Villa Borghese--and we saw all those young officers and their horses?
What glorious fellows they were, most of them! and how they rode!" Her cheek flushed to the recollection.

For a moment the Oxford street passed out of sight.

She saw the grassy slopes, the stone pines, the white walls, the classic stadium of the Villa Borghese, with the hot June sun stabbing the open spaces, and the deep shadows under the ilexes; and in front of the picture, the crowd of jostling horses, with their riders, bearing the historic names of Rome--Colonnas, Orsinis, Gaetanis, Odescalchis, and the rest.

A young and splendid brood, all arrogant life and gaiety, as high-mettled as their English and Irish horses.

And in front a tall, long-limbed cavalry officer in the Queen's household, bowing to Constance Bledlow, as he comes back, breathless and radiant from the race he has just won, his hand tight upon the reins, his athlete's body swaying to each motion of his horse, his black eyes laughing into hers.