‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. She fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train. “I don’t suppose you’ll be able to do it much,” said Ann Veronica. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. He made a note of the idea and stored it away. But it’s only now I’m able to do it.
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