A few minutes later she was sitting, wrapped in costly furs, near Sir Percy Blakeney on the box-seat of his magnificent coach, and the four splendid bays had thundered down the quiet street. The night was warm in spite of the gentle breeze which fanned Marguerite’s burning cheeks.
Soon London houses were left behind, and rattling over old Hammersmith Bridge, Sir Percy was driving his bays rapidly towards Richmond. The river wound in and out in its pretty delicate curves, looking like a silver serpent beneath the glittering rays of the moon.
Long shadows from overhanging trees spread occasional deep palls right across the road. The bays were rushing along at breakneck speed, held but slightly back by Sir Percy’s strong, unerring hands.
These nightly drives after balls and suppers in London were a source of perpetual delight to Marguerite, and she appreciated her husband’s eccentricity keenly, which caused him to adopt this mode of taking her home every night, to their beautiful home by the river, instead of living in a stuffy London house.
He loved driving his spirited horses along the lonely, moonlit roads, and she loved to sit on the box-seat, with the soft air of an English late summer’s night fanning her face after the hot atmosphere of a ball or supper-party.
The drive was not a long one—less than an hour, sometimes, when the bays were very fresh, and Sir Percy gave them full rein. To-night he seemed to have a very devil in his fingers, and the coach seemed to fly along the road, beside the river.
As usual, he did not speak to her, but stared straight in front of him, the ribbons seeming to lie quite loosely in his slender, white hands. Marguerite looked at him tentatively once or twice; she could