“The chaperon’s as dead as Queen Anne,” the young matron said. “And Miss Gilbert is one of the new dispensations.” She spoke lightly, cordially even—but her husband shot her a puzzled look. He knew—he knew every tone and tint of her voice so well—that for some odd reason Emma was not pleased. “I am not!” Ivy asserted coldly. “I despise them.” “Will you—ride—some day?” Sên persisted. Ivy flushed. “I am teaching most of the time, Mr. Sên, or trying to,” she told him. “Nonsense! And untrue!” Lady Snow cried. “Don’t dare to pretend you are not at your own perfect liberty all the time. My cousin helps me—when she wishes—with my kiddies. You must see them, at lunch, some day soon. They are dears. But Ivy is as free to junket as I am—freer—and she’s a little cat to pretend she isn’t. It’s one of her affectations—just to tease me. And you need not lend her a mount—we have quite a decent one, she and I, between us, just eating his head off—a groom has to give it enough exercise to keep it on its legs. I never ride except when my husband takes me and makes me, because it’s one of the things I do not care for at all. And Ivy won’t—because she’s contrary. But Wolf carries her perfectly. So——” “So—perhaps—some day—Miss Gilbert will give me the pleasure,” Sên King-lo said, and dismissed it. For he saw that Miss Gilbert had no wish to ride with him—and he himself cared very little either way. He turned to Sir Charles to speak of something quite else, but Lady Snow spoke before he could. “Do you ride much?” she asked. “Fairly often,” he told her. “Have you ridden with Mrs. Gunter? I think no one here rides as well as she does—no one I’ve seen.” “No,” Sên said. “I have ridden to hounds in England, but, except for that, I never have ridden with any lady. Here I have a quick canter by myself, sometimes at daybreak.” “How perfectly awful!” his hostess groaned—quite sincerely. “At daybreak! Mr. Sên, how can you?” “We are all early risers—we Chinese,” he told her. The sudden red pulsed into Ivy’s face. She was angry that it did—but she turned to Sên King-lo, and said impulsively, “When will you take me for our ride, Mr. Sên?” “Whenever you will let me,” he answered quietly, with a slight, grave bow. He showed no surprise. But he was surprised, as her cousins were. They both were gazing at her in almost open blank amazement. Ivy rarely changed her mind. Again Sên King-lo made no mistake. He could not imagine the cause of her _volte face_, but he was perfectly sure that it was not that she wished to ride with him. And because she did not wish to, he regretted that he had suggested it—or she consented. “Next Thursday?” Ivy persisted. “But you won’t ask me to be ready at daybreak?” “Next Thursday. Thank you so much,” he replied. “The hour you prefer will give me the greatest pleasure.” “Ten, then; before it is hot,” Ivy decided. Lucille often rode at ten. “Come to breakfast, Mr. Sên,” Lady Snow said cordially. “We breakfast at nine.”