"Lady Bazelhurst, I'll bet my
hat," thought he with a quiet whistle. "By George, this is awkward. My
first trespasser is in petticoats. I say, she's a beauty--a ripping
beauty. Lord, Lord, what do such women mean by giving themselves to
little rats like Bazelhurst? Oh, the shame of it! Well, it's up to
me! If I expect to 'make good,' I've just got to fire her off these
grounds."
Naturally he expected to be very polite about it--instinctively so; he
could not have been otherwise. The horsewoman saw him step into the
middle of the road, smiling oddly, but deferentially; her slim figure
straightened, her color rose, and there was a--yes, there was a
relieved gleam in her eyes. As she drew near he advanced, hat in hand,
his face uplifted in his most winning smile--savoring more of welcome
than of repellence.
"I beg your pardon," he said; "doubtless you are not aware that this
is proscribed land."
"Then you _are_ Mr. Shaw?" she asked, checking her horse with
premeditated surprise and an emphasis that puzzled him.
"Yes, madam," he responded gravely, "the hated Shaw. Permit me," and
he politely grasped the bridle rein. To her amazement he deliberately
turned and began to lead her horse, willy nilly, down the road, very
much as if she were a child taking her first riding lesson.
"What are you doing, sir?" she exclaimed sharply. There was a queer
flutter of helplessness in her voice.
"Putting you off," he answered laconically. She laughed in delight and
he looked up with a relieved smile.
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