Still Sên King-lo set but a moderately quickened pace. They still were keeping it so when they met Miss Smith face to face. But he had no doubt now that this girl could ride, and her English eyes, almost as quick to horsemanship as his were to most things, knew that Sên King-lo rode as well as a Derby jockey. And, if he rode today to please a girl who—he thought—disliked him, Sên King-lo rode to win. They rode far, and after the banks of Rock Creek they pushed on into the country, and rode faster and faster. “How joyous!” she called to him once, in a camaraderie that knew no race distinctions. “Glorious, isn’t it!” Sên answered. “You ride better than Charles does even,” she told him blithely; “and you ride our English fashion. You rise in your saddle.” “I learned to ride in England when I was a boy at school,” he explained. “But I usually ride American fashion when I jog off by myself.” “Why?” she asked quickly. “I enjoy it more.” “Oh,” the girl said, a little disdainfully. “You ought to try it,” he ventured. “Don’t you think it prettier?” But the English girl would not own that. “Our way is the kinder,” she insisted. “To the nags? Yes,” Sên agreed, “it certainly seems so. But your cavalrymen did not rise in their stirrups until recently. You should try it—sometimes.” She shook her head. “I don’t like learning new ways, Mr. Sên.” “Or languages?” “You don’t call Chinese a new language, do you?” “It would be to you,” he retorted. “By the way, there are a great many distinct Chinese languages, nearly sixty. I wonder which you’d admire—least.” “Horrors!” the girl cried. But she laughed softly—because he had said “least” when she’d thought he was going to say “most.” And he laughed back at her, because the speed they’d gone was tingling in his blood. “Thank you, Mr. Sên,” she said, as they stood waiting for Dawson or William to open the door. “I have so enjoyed it.” “Truly?” He asked it gravely. “I’ve loved it,” she told him. “I wonder then,” Dawson heard him say, “if you’ll let me take you again some day?” “I’d love it,” she answered. The Chinese man gave her a grateful look. It was sincere. He was grateful that a girl who disliked him, had had—as he knew she had—a good time. And he was gratified that he had done what he had tried to do. Sên King-lo was very human. That afternoon he sent Lady Snow a wealth of flowers—a note of condolence for her accident, all fragrant with their perfume. And this time Ivy too had her tribute, tea-roses, and on the card he sent with them Sên King-lo had written a word: “Thanks.” Again Miss Gilbert took her blossoms to her own room. There were flowers enough in the drawing- and sitting-rooms, and Emma’s room looked like a flower-show. Ivy put her roses in water—one bud she tucked in her gown. She was fond of tea-roses. CHAPTER XIII