The thing rankled.
"This equestrianism," he began, "is a matter of time and money--time
even more than money. I want to read. I want to deal with ideas. . . .
"Any fool can drive. . . ."
"Exactly," said Prothero.
"As for riding, it means no more than the elaborate study and
cultivation of your horse. You have to know him. All horses are
individuals. A made horse perhaps goes its round like an omnibus,
but for the rest. . . ."
Prothero made a noise of sympathetic assent.
"In a country where equestrianism is assertion I suppose one must be
equestrian. . . ."
That night some malignant spirit kept Benham awake, and great
American trotters with vast wide-striding feet and long yellow
teeth, uncontrollable, hard-mouthed American trotters, pounded over
his angry soul.
"Prothero," he said in hall next day, "we are going to drive to-
morrow."
Next day, so soon as they had lunched, he led the way towards
Maltby's, in Crosshampton Lane. Something in his bearing put a
question into Prothero's mind. "Benham," he asked, "have you ever
driven before?"
"NEVER," said Benham.
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