One could hardly make it to one's most intimate male friend, let alone to a girl who knows all about withers and hocks and pastern joints, and talks about "paneled country," and takes the "Racing Calendar." To such a young lady it is impossible to say: "I have ridden for a little more than a year; the horses with which I am acquainted are benevolent creatures from a riding school near Central Park; they go around the reservoir twice, and return automatically, and they sigh deeply when one mounts and again when one gets off." No; that sort of thing will not do at all; for the horse--besides having been placed in a position more aristocratic than ever, through the philanthropies of Henry Ford--is essentially "sporty." You must be a "sport" or you must keep away from him.

You must approach him with dash or you must not approach him at all.

And when a young lady inquires what kind of horse you like, there is but one way to reply.
"It doesn't matter at all," I answered.

"Any horse will do for me." Then, after a little pause, I added, as though it were merely an amusing afterthought: "I suppose I shall be stiff after my ride.

I haven't been on a horse in nearly two months." "Then," said the sympathetic young lady, "you'll want an easy ride." "I suppose it _might_ be more sensible," I conceded.
"Better give him the black mare," put in the Efficient Sister.
"She hasn't been out lately," said the other.