"Goodness!" cried Alice, forgetting her manners in her astonishment.
"What brings you here; and where on earth did you get that horse?"
"I presume, Alice," said Parker, satisfied with the impression he
had made, "that I am here for much the same reason as you are--to
enjoy the morning in proper style. As for Rozinante, I borrowed him.
Is that chestnut yours? Excuse the rudeness of the question."
"No," said Alice, coloring a little. "This seems such an unlikely
place to meet you."
"Oh, no. I always take a turn in the season. But certainly it would
have been a very unlikely place for us to meet a year ago."
So far, Alice felt, she was getting the worst of the conversation.
She changed the subject. "Have you been to Wiltstoken since I last
saw you?"
"Yes. I go there once every week at least."
"Every week! Janet never told me."
Parker implied by a cunning air that he thought he knew the reason
of that; but he said nothing. Alice, piqued, would not condescend to
make inquiries. So he said, presently, "How is Miss Thingumbob?"
"I do not know any one of that name."
"You know very well whom I mean. Your aristocratic patron, Miss
Carew."
Alice flushed. "You are very impertinent, Wallace," she said,
grasping her riding-whip. "How dare you call Miss Carew my patron?"
Wallace suddenly became solemn. "I did not know that you objected to
be reminded of all you owe her," he said. "Janet never speaks
ungratefully of her, though she has done nothing for Janet."
"I have not spoken ungratefully," protested Alice, almost in tears.
"I feel sure that you are never tired of speaking ill of me to them
at home."
"That shows how little you understand my real character. I always
make excuses for you."
"Excuses for what? What have I done? What do you mean?"
"Oh, I don't mean anything, if you don't. I thought from your
beginning to defend yourself that you felt yourself to be in the
wrong."
"I did not defend myself; and I won't have you say so, Wallace."
"Always your obedient, humble servant," he replied, with complacent
irony.
She pretended not to hear him, and whipped up her horse to a smart
trot. The white steed being no trotter, Parker followed at a
lumbering canter. Alice, possessed by a shamefaced fear that he was
making her ridiculous, soon checked her speed; and the white horse
subsided to a walk, marking its paces by deliberate bobs of its
unfashionably long mane and tail.