The horse was standing on its hind feet, pawing the air; its nostrils flared red; its tail swept like a willow plume behind.

The machine slowed and stopped for the traffic signal at the crossing, and still Jean studied the poster.

It certainly did not look in the least familiar.
"Is that supposed to be me, on that plum-colored horse ?" she drawled, when they slid out slowly in the wake of a great truck.
"Why, don't you like it ?" Dewitt looked at Jim Gates, who was again grinning delightedly and surreptitiously scribbling something on the margin of a folded paper he was carrying.
Jean turned upon him a mildly resentful glance.

"No, I don't.

Pard is not purple; he's brown.