Meanwhile a possible ground of consolation was beginning to suggest
itself to my mind.
"Will Mr. Gray keep his pony here?" I asked,
"The pony will live here," said my father.
"Oh, do you think," I asked, "do you think, that if I am very good,
and do my lessons well, Mr. Gray will sometimes let me ride him? He
_is_ such a darling!" By which I meant the pony, and not Mr. Gray. My
father laughed, and put his hand on my shoulders.
"I have only been teasing you, Regie," he said. "You know I told you
there was no tutor in the case. Mr. Andrewes and I were talking about
this pony, and when Mr. Andrewes said _grey_, he spoke of the colour
of the pony, and not of anybody's name."
"Then is the pony yours?" I asked.
My father looked at my eager face with a pleased smile.
"No, my boy," he said, "he is yours."
The wild delight with which I received this announcement, the way I
jumped and danced, and that Rubens jumped and danced with me, my
gratitude and my father's satisfaction, the renewed amenities between
myself and my pony, his obvious knowledge of the fact that I was his
master, and the running commentary of the Irishman, I will not attempt
to describe.
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