To the
mother of the Tarlingfords additional respect seemed due, and was
accorded.
Three blissful days of sunshine, meadowy rambles, forest explorations,
the majestic tranquillity of Nature spiced with the sauce of
flirtation, or something stronger. Sometimes we took our morning
happiness on foot, sometimes our mid-day ecstasy served up on
horseback, sometimes our evening rapture in an open wagon at two forty.
The puerile Tarlingford, interfering at first, was summarily crushed.
Aspiring to equestrian distinctions, he wrought upon maternal
indulgence, until, not without misgivings, maternal anxiety was
stifled, and, with injunctions that we should hover protectingly near
him, he was sent forth, a thorn in our sides. In half an hour he was
accidentally remembered, and was found to be nowhere within view; so we
pursued our way, well pleased. He had dropped quietly off, at the first
canter, into a miry slough, and had returned sobbingly, covered with
mortification and mud, to the arms of his parent. Keen questioning at
dinner was the result.
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