Rotten Row on a brilliant June morning, and Hyde Park at its loveliest.
The London "season" at its height, and throngs of fashionably-dressed
men and women "taking the air," strolling idly to and fro, lounging on
little green-painted chairs, or leaning on the rails watching the
riders of all nationalities.
A sight well worth watching. It is the week of the International Horse
Show, and there are many foreign officers in gaily-coloured uniforms,
mounted on sleek and beautiful thoroughbreds, cantering along amidst a
throng of more soberly clad riders of both sexes.
The "liver brigade" is at full strength. These red-faced,
white-moustached, elderly men, with "Retired Colonel, Indian Army,"
stamped all over them, as it were, are probably telling each other, as
they try to urge their hacks to a gallop, that "the Row is becoming
demnably overcrowded, sir, and the place is going to the dogs. Those
confounded foreigner fellows look like circus performers, and that sort
of young woman wouldn't have been tolerated in my young days.... Gad!
just look at that girl!"
The girl in question is mounted on a high-spirited bay which is
resenting her mastery and is fighting to get the bit between his teeth.
The horse rears, jerking his fine head from side to side, then bucks
with a whinny of rage, and the "liver brigade" scatters. A mounted
policeman, on the alert to render assistance and prevent accidents,
brings along his well-trained steed at a hand-gallop, recognises the
rider of the bucking thoroughbred, and reins up with a grin on his
bronzed face.
He knows that Miss Myra Rostrevor, although she looks a mere slip of a
girl, is quite capable of riding and handling almost any horse that
ever was saddled, and is no more likely to be thrown than any of the
Italian officers who have been competing for championships at the
Olympia. He remembers, too, that when another woman's horse bolted
with her a few weeks previously, Miss Rostrevor easily outdistanced him
in pursuit of the runaway, brought the startled animal to a standstill,
and rode off without waiting for a word of thanks from the scared rider.
Idlers lining the rails, however, ignorant of the identity and
capabilities of Miss Myra Rostrevor, watch her struggle with her
spirited steed apprehensively if they are ignorant of horsemanship, and
with admiration if they are experienced.
"Ride him, missie, ride him!" ejaculates a lean, bronzed American
involuntarily. "Gee! some girl! She's sure got you beat, horse, and
you know it. Sits you as surely as an Arizona cowboy, and must have
wrists like steel although she's got hands like a baby. Attaboy! ...
Yep, she'll give you your head now, but I'll gamble she'll bring you
back quiet as Mary's little lamb."