He knows that Miss Myra Rostrevor, although she looks a mere slip of a
girl, is quite capable of riding and handling almost any horse that
ever was saddled, and is no more likely to be thrown than any of the
Italian officers who have been competing for championships at the
Olympia. He remembers, too, that when another woman's horse bolted
with her a few weeks previously, Miss Rostrevor easily outdistanced him
in pursuit of the runaway, brought the startled animal to a standstill,
and rode off without waiting for a word of thanks from the scared rider.

Idlers lining the rails, however, ignorant of the identity and
capabilities of Miss Myra Rostrevor, watch her struggle with her
spirited steed apprehensively if they are ignorant of horsemanship, and
with admiration if they are experienced.

"Ride him, missie, ride him!" ejaculates a lean, bronzed American
involuntarily. "Gee! some girl! She's sure got you beat, horse, and
you know it. Sits you as surely as an Arizona cowboy, and must have
wrists like steel although she's got hands like a baby. Attaboy! ...
Yep, she'll give you your head now, but I'll gamble she'll bring you
back quiet as Mary's little lamb."

He was right. Myra Rostrevor gave her mount his head for a time and
went the length of the Row, then reined him in, turned, and trotted him
back at a pace that would scarce have shaken up the most liverish of
the Indian Colonels. She eventually brought her horse to a standstill
close to the rails, and patted his neck as she bent forward to chat
smilingly to a tall, fair young man of aristocratic appearance and
languid air.