“My dear, as this is your birthday, I have given myself the pleasure of buying you a new horse and wagon, and it will be ready for us to go out in half an hour.” “Oh, you dear, thoughtful man!” said Mrs. Tucker, beaming as well as she was able to through her smoked glasses. Then she rose and gave him a kiss that made him feel that he was a guilty wretch to be meditating the deception of such a lovable wife. But he had gone too far to retrace his steps now, and he eased his feelings with the thought that the end would justify the means. “You are always doing things to please me,” said she. “No such thing,” he replied. “You may not like this horse as well as you like Roanoke or Charley, but it is quite a swagger turn-out, and I’ve decided to have James go with us and sit behind on the rumble.” “Oh, but, my dear, we will not be driving alone if he is with us.” “Nonsense! We’ve been married twenty years, and anyhow James is a graven image. He will not know we are along.” (“He will be too busy running the thing,” added Mr. Tucker mentally.) A half-hour later Mr. Tucker announced to his wife that he was ready, and she put a few finishing touches to her toilet, bathed her eyes with witch-hazel, adjusted her smoked glasses, and went out to the porte-cochère. She dimly discerned the horse, the wagon, the groom at the horse’s head, and her husband. There was an indescribably swagger look about the equipage, and she wished that she could take off her glasses and gloat over her new possession, but the doctor’s orders had been imperative. She did, however, approach the horse’s head to pet him, but her husband said: “Don’t, dear. He may not like women. Wait until he is used to us before you try to coddle him.” [Illustration: She approached the horse’s head to pet him] They stepped to their seats; the groom left the horse’s head and handed the reins to Mr. Tucker, mounted the rumble, and off they started. “Why, it’s like sailing,” said Mrs. Tucker. “Pneumatic tires, my dear,” answered her husband glibly. “And how rhythmical the horse’s hoof-beats are!” “An evidence of blood, my darling. I know this horse’s pedigree: by Carpenter out of Chestnut--” “Oh, don’t. I never cared for those long genealogies. Whether he has blood or not, he is certainly the smoothest traveller I ever saw.” They had been skilfully guided along the winding path that led to the highway by the chauffeur, who, although he was a James, was not the James who generally worked in the stable, but a James hired at the office of the company in order that he might break in the _local_ James. After they reached the road the way for a mile or more was clear and straight, and they met with no teams. The horse was wonderfully lifelike, except in his action, or rather lack of action, for his forefeet were eternally in an attitude of rest. The hind legs rose and fell with the inequalities of the road, and his mane and tail waved in the breeze like the real horsehair that they were.