MAUDE THWAITE WAS saying, “I’m going to try it.” She was stalking up and down the office, her hands stuck deep in the pockets of her well-worn riding breeches. Her husband was engaged in the delicate operation of squeezing pomade from a tiny lead tube, which he then daubed thickly upon the twisted ends of his mustache. He leaned closer to the wall mirror. “I don’t know,” he said dubiously. “He’s not a jumper.” “Any horse can be broken to the jumps,” the woman told him. “If he can’t be schooled into form enough for the horse shows there’s still the steeplechase meets. With his speed …” “He’s light in the leg,” Thwaite reminded her. “That horse is racing bred—needs heavier bone to make jumps safely.” “If he breaks a leg it’s his hard luck,” the woman said. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking an egg or two. Anyway I’m going to take that Siwash horse in hand and see what I can make of him.” “Wait until you get him, my dear,”
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