He was right. Myra Rostrevor gave her mount his head for a time and
went the length of the Row, then reined him in, turned, and trotted him
back at a pace that would scarce have shaken up the most liverish of
the Indian Colonels. She eventually brought her horse to a standstill
close to the rails, and patted his neck as she bent forward to chat
smilingly to a tall, fair young man of aristocratic appearance and
languid air.
"I said it! Some good-looker, too," resumed the American, and turned
to a well-groomed stranger next to him, after eyeing the graceful
horsewoman admiringly. "Say, sir, do you happen to know who that young
lady is?" he inquired.
"Yes, I happen to know the young lady," responded the other, politely
willing to satisfy the American's curiosity. "She is a Miss Rostrevor,
daughter of a very old Irish family, and as wild a madcap as ever came
out of the Emerald Isle."
"She looks it," the American commented. "There's a spice of devil in
her expression, and I see she has red hair. I guess the man who
marries her will sure need a bearing rein and a special bit and snaffle
to keep that young beauty in order. But I'll bet she's not short of
admirers, and lots of fellers'd jump at the chance of marrying her, and
risk her kicking over the traces?"
"You are perfectly right, sir," answered the Englishman, with an amused
laugh. "Miss Rostrevor has a host of admirers, which is hardly
surprising, considering her remarkable beauty. Several young men have
lost their heads about her, and she is credited--or should it be
debited?--with having broken several hearts. Incidentally, the man to
whom she is talking might be interested in your remark about the
necessity for a special bit and snaffle. He and Miss Rostrevor are
engaged to be married."
"Is that so?" drawled the American, gazing at the engaged couple with
undisguised curiosity. "What is he? A Lord, or Duke, or something of
the sort?"
"No, he hasn't any title, but he is well-connected, and is one of the
wealthiest and most eligible young men in England. His name is Antony
Standish, and his income is reputed to be something like a hundred
thousand pounds a year. His father was Sir Mark Standish, a great
iron-master and coal magnate."
"You don't say! Lemme see. One hundred thousand pounds. That's round
about five hundred thousand dollars. Some income! What does Mr.
Antony Standish do?"