“Look at me,” said Remsen, who was his smiling self, pointing to his own face; “whom do you see here?”

“Goo’ fellow,” said O’Roon, dizzily, “Goo’ old Remsen.”

“Not so,” said Remsen.  “You see Mounted Policeman O’Roon.  Look at your face—­no; you can’t do that without a glass—­but look at mine, and think of yours.  How much alike are we?  As two French table d’hote dinners.  With your badge, on your horse, in your uniform, will I charm nurse-maids and prevent the grass from growing under people’s feet in the Park this day.  I will have your badge and your honor, besides having the jolliest lark I’ve been blessed with since we licked Spain.”

Promptly on time the counterfeit presentment of Mounted Policeman O’Roon single-footed into the Park on his chestnut steed.  In a uniform two men who are unlike will look alike; two who somewhat resemble each other in feature and figure will appear as twin brothers.  So Remsen trotted down the bridle paths, enjoying himself hugely, so few real pleasures do ten-millionaires have.

Along the driveway in the early morning spun a victoria drawn by a pair of fiery bays.  There was something foreign about the affair, for the Park is rarely used in the morning except by unimportant people who love to be healthy, poor and wise.  In the vehicle sat an old gentleman with snowy side-whiskers and a Scotch plaid cap which could not be worn while driving except by a personage.  At his side sat the lady of Remsen’s heart—­the lady who looked like pomegranate blossoms and the gibbous moon.

Remsen met them coming.  At the instant of their passing her eyes looked into his, and but for the ever coward’s heart of a true lover he could have sworn that she flushed a faint pink.  He trotted on for twenty yards, and then wheeled his horse at the sound of runaway hoofs.  The bays had bolted.

Remsen sent his chestnut after the victoria like a shot.  There was work cut out for the impersonator of Policeman O’Roon.  The chestnut ranged alongside the off bay thirty seconds after the chase began, rolled his eye back at Remsen, and said in the only manner open to policemen’s horses: 

“Well, you duffer, are you going to do your share?  You’re not O’Roon, but it seems to me if you’d lean to the right you could reach the reins of that foolish slow-running bay—­ah! you’re all right; O’Roon couldn’t have done it more neatly!”

The runaway team was tugged to an inglorious halt by Remsen’s tough muscles.  The driver released his hands from the wrapped reins, jumped from his seat and stood at the heads of the team.  The chestnut, approving his new rider, danced and pranced, reviling equinely the subdued bays.  Remsen, lingering, was dimly conscious of a vague, impossible, unnecessary old gentleman in a Scotch cap who talked incessantly about something.  And he was acutely conscious of a pair of violet eyes that would have drawn Saint Pyrites from his iron pillar—­or whatever the allusion is—­and of the lady’s smile and look—­a little frightened, but a look that, with the ever coward heart of a true lover, he could not yet construe.  They were asking his name and bestowing upon him wellbred thanks for his heroic deed, and the Scotch cap was especially babbling and insistent.  But the eloquent appeal was in the eyes of the lady.