Allen had attempted to persuade the Court that the prime cause of the accident was simply this, that poor Mr. Barradine’s saddle was made by a London firm instead of by him—­Allen.  He pooh-poohed the stud-groom’s statement that Mr. Barradine had an ineradicable objection to patent detachable stirrups, and maintained that he would have been able, in five minutes’ quiet conversation, to prevail on the deceased gentleman to adopt a certain device which was known to Allen but to nobody else in the trade; and then he attempted to read a written paper in which he advocated the superiority to the modern plain flap of the ancient padded knee-roll as a means of rendering the seat more secure for forehand stumbles.

“It was laughable—­but for the occasion—­to hear him spouting out his nonsense, until Doctor Hollis told him straight he wouldn’t put up with it any longer.”

Dale gave this account of the proceedings to Mavis and to Mr. Ridgett, who had come up to take high tea on the eve of his departure just as he had done on the day of his arrival.

“But I admit,” said Dale, conscientiously, “there was one bit of sense in Allen’s remarks.  He convinced me against trusting to these blood animals.  They’re too quick, and they’re never sure.  The grooms an’ all spoke up to Mr. Barradine’s knowledge of his ridin’ gen’rally; but it stands to reason, when you’re past sixty your grip on a horse isn’t the same thing as what it once was.  Say, your mount gets bounding this way, that way;” and with his body and hands he indicated the rapid lateral movements of a horse shying and plunging.  “Well, it’s only the grip that can save you.  You aren’t going to keep in your saddle by mere balance—­and it’s balance that old gentlemen rely on best part of the time.”

Mavis listened wonderingly and admiringly.  When her husband spoke of the dead man, his voice was grave, calm and kindly.  No one on earth could have detected that while the man lived, he had been regarded with anything but affection.  She thought of that epithet that people so often echo—­Death the Leveler.  Could one hope that already, although Will might not know it, might not be willing to know it, death had taken from him all or nearly all of his anger and resentment?  If it was only just acting—­the stubborn effort to keep up appearances—­it was marvelous.  Then she sighed.  She had remembered that Will never did things by halves.

She felt almost gay, certainly quite light-hearted, when driving out with him to the funeral.  It was such a glorious day, not a bit too hot, with a west wind sweeping unseen through the limpid sky; and the whole landscape seeming animated, everywhere the sound of wheels, the roads full of people all going one way.  She simulated gravity, even sadness, as they passed the dark pines near Hadleigh Wood; but in truth she was quite undisturbed by her proximity to the fateful spot.  It seemed to her that with the murmur of the wheels, the movement of the air, the progressive excitement of every minute, all the tragic or gloomy element of life was rolling far away from her.