In some ways, Letty enjoyed the hunting: the eager crowd of yokels at the meets, the splendid horses, the odd turns-out, and the general spirit of _camaraderie_ and enjoyment. It was not bad fun galloping along grassy lanes, darting through convenient open gates, now and then getting over a small fence, and feeling absurdly proud and brave! Her prowess and improvement were remarked, and Lady Rashleigh said one day at dinner: “Look here, Letty, we must promote you, especially as the cob is lame--he has a seedy toe. We cannot any longer allow you to go skirmishing about the roads, trying to see all you can,--and save your neck! You are to ride The Goat; he will carry you splendidly. I rode him last season.” “The Goat, would be too much for you, Mrs. Blag,” volunteered Lord Robbie. “Take my tip, and don’t you ride him; he has only one side to his mouth.” “Shut up, Robbie!” said Lady Rashleigh. “Letty can stick on all right, she’s got to learn. We shall see her in the first flight yet. By the way, what happened to _you_ in the second run? I saw old Sarsfield pirouetting on his head!” “Only a rabbit hole; we both bit the earth--no harm done. If the cob is lame, Sarsfield would be a safe conveyance for Mrs. Blag much steadier than The Goat.” Nevertheless it was The Goat, a raking chestnut 16·2 in hard condition, who proved to be Letty’s fate; in spite of her piteous, even agonised, protestations. Her husband, accustomed to such hard-riding women as his sister and friends, could not understand her nervousness; he set it down to affectation, assured her that “The Goat was as quiet as a lamb. All he wanted was to go; all she had to do, was to sit tight.” Mounted on this tall, headstrong animal, a first-class hunter and mount for a muscular and resolute man, Letty looked as she felt, abjectly miserable,--whilst her sister-in-law and Lola, unkindly derided her fears. The Goat was so different to the nice, sedate, well-mannered cob; he fretted and shied, threw his head about, dragging the reins through her cold, stiff fingers; and became frightfully excited when the hounds, and the whips, streamed pleasantly through the village street; her futile efforts to quiet him were ridiculed by Blagdon, who audibly called her “a chicken-hearted little fool.” All she had to do was to let the brute alone; he couldn’t give her a fall if he tried! As the mass of riders and drivers jogged off in the wake of the hounds, Lumley, filled with burning indignation and compassion, joined the white-faced victim. To mount a nervous, inexperienced girl on this hard-mouthed, powerful brute, was, in his opinion, not far from a bold attempt at murder.