then we went into
the Ring, and I looked and looked everywhere, but I could not see
anything like Frank or his brown hack. To be sure the Ride was as
crowded as a fair. But I _did_ see Cousin John, and I _must_ say it
was too bad of him to keep me waiting and watching all the afternoon,
and then never to take the trouble of sending a note or a message, but
to start off by himself and escort Miss Molasses, as if he was her
brother _at least_, if not a nearer relation. Miss Molasses, forsooth,
with her lackadaisical ways and her sentimental nonsense; and that
goose John taking it all in open-mouthed, as if she was an angel upon
earth. Well, at all events she don't _ride_ like me. Such a figure _I_
never saw on a horse!--all on one side, like the handle of a teapot,
bumping when she trots and wobbling when she canters, with braiding
all over her habit, and a _white_ feather in her hat, and gauntlet
gloves (_of course_ one may wear gauntlet gloves for hunting, but
_that's_ not London), and her sallow face. People call her
interesting, but _I_ call her _bilious_. And a wretched long-legged
Rosinante, with _round_ reins and tassels, and a netting over its
ears, and a head like a fiddle-case, and no more action than a
camp-stool. Such a couple I never beheld. I wonder John wasn't ashamed
to be seen with her, instead of leaning his hand upon her horse's
neck, and looking up in her face with his broad, honest smile, and
taking no more notice of her sister Jane, who is a clever girl, with
something in her, than if she had been the groom. I was provoked with
him beyond all patience. Had it been Mrs. Lumley, for instance, I
could have understood it; for she certainly is a chatty, amusing
woman, though dreadfully _bold_, and it is a pleasure to see her
canter up the Park in her close-fitting habit and her neat hat, with
her beautiful round figure swaying gracefully to every motion of her
horse, yet so imperceptibly that you could fancy she might balance a
glassful of water on her head without spilling a drop. To say nothing
of the brown mare, the only animal in London I covet, who is herself a
picture. Such action! such a mouth! and such a shape! I coaxed Aunt
Deborah to wait near Apsley House, on purpose that we might see her
before we left the Park. And sure enough we did see her, as usual
surrounded by a swarm of admirers; and next to her--positively next to
her--Frank Lovell, on the very brown hack that had been standing an
hou