I think there is going to be something unlucky."
"You're going to tumble off, you mean? Better not! You don't want to
get turned out, do you?"
Arithelli turned to a mirror on the wall.
"Do I look very ghastly?" she asked.
"Not much more than usual. None of us look very fresh out here, do we?
Do you think your hat is on straight, you untidy little trollop? Well,
it isn't! Hurry up,--it's late. No, I'm not going down there with
you. I'll stay here, and do some writing."
The rehearsal that morning seemed interminable. For the first time
since she had ridden in public Arithelli bungled over her tricks. She
jumped short, miscalculated distances, and once barely saved herself
from a severe fall.
The ring-master, with whom she was a great favourite, shook his head
reproachfully at her, as he paused to rest and wipe his heated
countenance. He was a greasy and affable personage, whose temper was
as easy as his morals. He was more soft-hearted than most of his
compatriots, and he honestly liked Arithelli and admired her riding.
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