(The fellow who related this to me added, “As you know, Miss Tennant, this is the only certain way by which you can sell any horse.”)

Another man said:  “I don’t agree with you, the horse is all right; when it belonged to Flower I saw Miss Margot going like a bird on it. ...”

My friend:  “Did Miss Tennant ride Flower’s horses?”

At this the other fellow said: 

“Why, my dear man, where have you lived! ...”

Some months after I had ridden Jack Madden and my own horses over high Leicestershire, my friend came to see me and asked me to swear on my Bible oath that I would not give him away over a secret which he intended to tell me.

After I had taken my solemn oath he said:  “Your friend Peter Flower in India was going to be put in the bankruptcy court and turned out of every club in London; so I went to Sam Lewis and paid his debt, but I don’t want him to know about it and he never need, unless you tell him.”

Margot:  “What does he owe?  And whom does he owe it to?”

My friend:  “He owes ten thousand pounds, but I’m not at liberty to tell you who it’s to; he is a friend of mine and a very good fellow.  I can assure you that he has waited longer than most people would for Flower to pay him and I think he’s done the right thing.”

Margot:  “Is Peter Flower a friend of yours?”

My friend:  “I don’t know him by sight and have never spoken to him in my life, but he’s the man you’re in love with and that is enough for me.”

. . . . . . .

When the year was up and Peter—­for all I knew—­was still in India, I had made up my mind that, come what might, I would never, under any circumstances, renew my relations with him.

That winter I was staying with the Manners, as usual, and finding myself late for a near meet cut across country.  Larking is always a stupid thing to do; horses that have never put a foot wrong generally refuse the smallest fence and rather than upset them at the beginning of the day you end by going through the gate, which you had better have done at first.

I had a mare called Molly Bawn, given to me by my fiance, who was the finest timber-jumper in Leicestershire, and, seeing the people at the meet watching me as I approached, I could not resist, out of pure swagger, jumping an enormous gate.  I said to myself how disgusted Peter would have been at my vulgarity!  But at the same time it put me in good spirits.  Something, however, made me turn round; I saw a man behind me, jumping the fence beside my gate; and there was Peter Flower!  He was in tearing spirits and told me with eagerness how completely he had turned over a new leaf and never intended doing this, that or the other again, as far the most wonderful thing had happened to him that ever happened to any one.

“I’m under a lucky star, Margie!  By heavens I am!  And the joy of seeing you is so great that I won’t allude to the gate, or Molly Bawn, or you, or any thing ugly!  Let us enjoy ourselves for once; and for God’s sake don’t scold me.  Are you glad to see me?  Let me look at you!  Which do you love best, Molly Bawn or me?  Don’t answer but listen.”