We reached the end of the straight, and Isaacs reined in and bid Miss
Westonhaugh and her companion good evening. I bowed from where I was,
and took Mr. Ghyrkins' outstretched hand. He was in a good humour again,
and called out to us to come and see him, as we rode away. I thought to
myself I certainly would; and we paced back, crossing the open stretch
for the third time.
It was almost dark under the trees as we re-entered the woods; I pulled
out a cheroot and lit it. Isaacs did the same, and we walked our horses
along in silence. I was thinking of the little picture I had just seen.
The splendid English girl on her thoroughbred beside the beautiful Arab
steed and his graceful rider. What a couple, I thought: what noble
specimens of great races. Why did not this fiery young Persian, with his
wealth, his beauty, and his talents, wed some such wife as that, some
high-bred Englishwoman, who should love him and give him home and
children--and, I was forced to add, commonplace happiness? How often
does it happen that some train of thought, unacknowledged almost to
ourselves, runs abruptly into a blind alley; especially when we try to
plan out the future life of some one else, or to sketch for him what we
should call happiness. The accidental confronting of two individuals
pleases the eye, we unite them in our imagination, carrying on the
picture before us, and suddenly we find ourselves in a quagmire of
absurd incongruities.
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