In the eyes of each was a challenge.
"I'll race you to the mill!" cried Miss Lady, tugging at her bridle.
"Don't start 'til I give the word. Now, go!"
Off through the smiling, sunlit fields they dashed, too impetuous and
young, and gloriously free, to waste a thought on that inexorable
wheel of life, upon which sooner or later the most irresponsible must
break their wings. On and on they went, neck to neck, the gallop
breaking into a run. Down past the blacksmith's, past the old mill
which was to have been the goal, through the long covered bridge, over
the hill and out again on the level road where they still kept
abreast.
And close upon them, with head up and mane flying, came another steed,
free, irresponsible, unbridled, invisible. It was Romance, pounding in
their wake; Romance, whose hoof beats made their pulses dance in
unison, whose breath upon their cheeks made them laugh for joy in the
face of the wind.
They were almost to the city now, having reached that slovenly suburb
that had given its plebeian name to the once aristocratic
neighborhood. Clouds of dust whirled in their wake, and stones flew
right and left under the horses' hoofs; men in carts pulled their
teams to the side of the road to let the mad pair pass; dogs dashed
from dark doorways, barking furiously.
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