Cashel Byron's Profession

"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.