he said, observing the steady disintegration of the apple in his gloved palm. When it had disappeared, he removed the glove and scratched the horse’s forelock. “I shouldn’t be here, of course. It’s liable to lead to all sorts of trouble.”The horse snorted and pushed at his chest, leaving a dribble of apple specks on his coat.“Easy for you to say, old fellow,” he said. “You’ve got no balls to speak of.”A whuffle, low in the equine throat.“It’s a blessing, I assure you,” said Wallingford, scratching his way down the horse’s forehead, leaving no spot of exquisite sensitivity untouched. The animal stretched his neck with pleasure. “They’re nothing but bother, women, excepting only a few brief and fleeting moments. And with this one, not even that, unless I’m an even greater blackguard than my grandfather makes out.”Above his head, the rain drummed against the tile roof of the stable, but inside the air was filled with damp warmth, with the familiar smells of straw and horseflesh and manure: simple earthy smells, the smell of youth and contentment.“I wonder what she means by it,”
