CHAPTER XVII 



THE KISS 



" What's the matter? " asked Mr Dashwood. 



" Botherations," repUed Miss Grimshaw. " Look 

 at this." 



She handed him a neatly-printed card, folded 

 in the middle. It looked like a ball programme. 

 Nearly four months had passed. The Frenchs 

 had settled down at The Martens. The whole 

 neighbourhood had called; there had been several 

 small dinner-parties at the Bungalow, and Garry- 

 owen was turning out a dream. Training a horse 

 is just like painting a picture; the thing grows in 

 spirit and in form ; it has some of you in it ; the 

 pride of the artist is not unallied to the pride of 

 the trainer. When you see swiftness coming out, 

 and strength, endurance and pluck, you feel just 

 as the artist feels when, of a morning, he uncovers 

 his canvas and says to himself, " Ah, yes, I put 

 some good stuff into that yesterday." 



On the dull, clear winter mornings, in the 



bracing air of the downs, French knew something 



of the joy of Hfe as he watched Garry o wen and The 



Cat taking exercise. Sometimes young ladies 



from Crowsnest would appear on the edge of the 



downs to watch Mr French's " dear horses." 



They little knew how apt that expression was. 



i86 



