There was no
traffic and we turned into the Edgware Road towards Hendon at a
great pace, but Peter was a bad driver and after a little time
said his arms ached and he thought it was time the "damned" horse
was made to stop.
"I'm told the only way to stop an American trotter," said he, "is
to hit him over the head." At this I took the whip out of the
socket and threw it into the road.
Peter, maddened by my action, shoved the reins into my hands,
saying he would jump out. I did not take the smallest notice of
this threat, but slackened the reins, after which we went quite
slowly. I need hardly say Peter did not jump out, but suggested
with severity that we should go back and look for the whip.
This was the last thing I intended to do, so when we turned I
leant back in my seat and tugged at the trotter with all my might,
and we flew home without uttering a single word.
I was an excellent driver, but that night had taxed all my powers
and, when we pulled up at the corner of Grosvenor Square, I ached
in every limb. We were not in the habit of arriving together at
the front door; and after he had handed me down to the pavement I
felt rather awkward: I had no desire to break the silence, but
neither did I want to take away Peter's coat, which I was wearing,
so I said tentatively:
"Shall I give you your covert-coat?"
PETER: "Don't be childish! How can you walk back to the front door
in your ball-dress? If any one happened to be looking out of the
window, what would they think?"
This was really more than I could bear.
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