foul fiend and no points whatever—­looked a regular crock at starting.  But he romped home on three legs, notwithstanding, with his jockey clinging to him like an inspired monkey.  It was the only race he ever won.  Every one put it down to black magic or personal magnetism on the part of his rider.  Same thing, I believe.  He was the sort of chap who always comes out on top.  Rum thing I can’t remember his name.  I had travelled out with him on the same boat once too.  Have some more tea.”

This was a specimen of most of Bobby Fraser’s conversation.  He was brimful of anecdotes.  They flowed as easily as water from a fountain.  Their source seemed inexhaustible.  He never repeated himself to the same person.

Muriel declined his offer of more tea.  For some reason she wanted to hear more of the man who had won the Great Mogul’s Cup at Sharapura.

Bobby was more than willing to oblige.  “Oh, it was sheer cheek that carried him through, of course.  I always said he was the cheekiest beggar under the sun—­quite a little chap he was, hideously ugly, with a face like a baked apple, and eyes that made you think of a cinematograph.  You know the sort of thing.  I used to think he had a future before him, but he seems to have dropped out.  He was only about twenty when I had him for a stable-companion.  I remember one outrageous thing he did on the voyage out.  There was card-playing going on in the saloon one night, and he was looking on.  One of the lady-players—­well, I suppose I may as well call it by its name—­one of them cheated.  He detected it.  Beastly position, of course.  Don’t know what I should have done under the circumstances, but anyhow he wasn’t at a loss.  He simply lighted a cigarette and set fire to the lady’s dress.”

Muriel’s exclamation of horror was ample testimony to the fact that her keenest interest was aroused.

“Yes, awfully risky, wasn’t it?” said Bobby.  “We only thought at the time he had been abominably careless.  I did not hear the rights of the case till afterwards, and then not from him.  There was a fine flareup, of course—­card-table overturned—­ladies in hysterics—­in the middle of the fray our gallant hero extinguishing the flames with his bare hands.  He was profusely apologetic and rather badly scorched.  The lady took very little harm, except to her nerves and her temper.  She cut him dead for the rest of the voyage, but I don’t think it depressed him much.  He was the sort of fellow that never gets depressed.  Hullo!  There’s Mrs. Philpot making violent signs.  I suppose I had better go and see what she wants, or be dropped for evermore.  Good-bye!”

He smiled upon her and departed, leaving her thoughtful, with a certain wistful wonder in her eyes.

Lady Bassett’s return interrupted her reverie.  “You have had some tea, I hope, dear?  Ah, I thought Mr. Bobby Fraser was making his way in this direction.  So sweet of him not to forget you when he has so many other calls upon his attention.  And how are you faring for to-night?  Is your programme full yet?  I have literally not one dance left.”