“Oh, I forgot. You have a physician of your own sex. Why is she not looking after you?” “Miss Gale is better employed. She is at Vizard Court in attendance on a far more brilliant person--Mademoiselle Klosking, a professional singer. Perhaps you know her?” “I saw her at Homburg.” “Well, she met with an accident in our hall--a serious one; and Harrington took her in, and has placed all his resources--his lady physician and all--at her service: he is so fond of _Music.”_ A certain satirical bitterness peered through these words, but honest Uxmoor did not notice it. He said, “Then I wish you would let me be your doctor--for want of a better.” “And you think _you_ can cure me?” said Zoe, satirically. “It does seem presumptuous. But, at least, I could do you a little good if you could be got to try my humble prescription.” “What is it?” asked Zoe, listlessly. “It is my mare Phillis. She is the delight of every lady who mounts her. She is thorough-bred, lively, swift, gentle, docile, amiable, perfect. Ride her on these downs an hour or two very day. I'll send her over to-morrow. May I?” “If you like. Rosa _would_ pack up my riding-habit.” “Rosa was a prophetess.” Next day came Phillis, saddled and led by a groom on horseback, and Uxmoor soon followed on an old hunter. He lifted Zoe to her saddle, and away they rode, the groom following at a respectful distance. When they got on the downs they had a delightful canter; but Zoe, in her fevered state of mind, was not content with that. She kept increasing the pace, till the old hunter could no longer live with the young filly; and she galloped away from Lord Uxmoor, and made him ridiculous in the eyes of his groom. The truth is, she wanted to get away from him. He drew the rein, and stood stock-still. She made a circuit of a mile, and came up to him with heightened color and flashing eyes, looking beautiful. “Well?” said she. “Don't you like galloping?” “Yes, but I don't like cruelty.” “Cruelty?” “Look at the mare's tail how it is quivering, and her flanks panting! And no wonder. You have been over twice the Derby course at a racing pace. Miss Vizard, a horse is not a steam engine.” “I'll never ride her again,” said Zoe. “I did not come here to be scolded. I will go home.” They walked slowly home in silence. Uxmoor hardly knew what to say to her; but at last he murmured, apologetically, “Never mind the poor mare, if you are better for galloping her.” She waited a moment before she spoke, and then she said, “Well, yes; I am better. I'm better for my ride, and better for my scolding. Good-by.” (Meaning forever.) “Good-by,” said he, in the same tone. Only he sent the mare next day, and followed her on a young thorough-bred. “What!” said Zoe; “am I to have another trial?” “And another after that.” So this time she would only canter very slowly, and kept stopping every now and then to inquire, satirically, if that would distress the mare.