“Just a minute,” Sên King-lo begged. “The grandmother will be disappointed. She has planned it to give you pleasure. Two of the grooms are trying out a horse for you now, a splendid, gentle creature that my cousin Wang’s son often rides. The venerable one has commandeered it for you. It has never had a woman on its back, or a side-saddle, but it has a side-saddle now: the saddlers were up all last night, making it by candle-light. Sên Wo P’ing has seen Englishwomen ride in Shanghai on the Bubbling Well road, and he was with them all night—it was the grandmother’s command—directing them as they worked by candle and torch and lantern light. And they’ll be doing it again tonight. Ka’-ka’ is careering about now in the storm with a side-saddle on her back, but it is only a half-finished one. One groom is clutching and dancing at her bit, hanging there for grim life, the other is side-saddled on her back and looks like to break his neck—but he won’t do it. They all three are having the time of their lives, as we used to say in Washington. But tomorrow or the next day Ka’-ka’ ’ll be as tame as any rabbit. The old heart is set on it, and so is mine. Won’t you have her kindness, wifeling?” Ruby Sên rose slowly, the silken jumper falling to the floor. “She is very, very kind, your grandmother,” she said softly, and King-lo saw a mist in her eyes. “I shall love to ride here with you. Come, help me choose,” she bade him as she moved towards the stolid waiting urchins. Sên King-lo’s face glowed. He was grateful to Sên Ya Tin, and he was grateful to Sên Ruby. And, seeing them engrossed with soft cashmeres and stout tussores, the master tailor dropped on a surreptitious knee, then squatted squarely on the floor with his feet tucked in beneath him, and studied the fallen jumper eagerly. “What is it, dear?” Sên asked her presently, when he saw a new perplexity a little wrinkling her forehead. “Won’t my riding-skirt drive the mare crazy, Lo? You say she has never carried a lady?” “Nor has she, but,” Sên chuckled, “you forget—Ka’-ka’ has carried many skirts—quite as long ones as the one you wear in the Row.” His wife turned a sudden painful crimson. She _had_ forgotten for a moment. Was she to ride with her husband riding beside her wearing petticoats? Lo saw and understood. But he gave no sign and moved quietly to his wife’s writing-table, sat down and found a brush and dipped it. “What are you going to do?” Mrs. Sên asked as she followed him. “Make your riding-habit,” King-lo told her. “Lo, you are wonderful!” she exclaimed, as the habit grew quickly on the pad, a habit perfect in every detail. She had found a new talent in her Chinese man, and she leaned and watched him proudly with her hand upon his shoulder. The tailor slipped up without a sound and came and watched the rapid brush-work too. And when it was finished, he drew a long tape from his sleeve and nodded without speaking. “He says, ‘Can do,’ ” Sên told her, with a laugh.