“I won fifteen quid.”

Though desirous of repeating a whimsical comment on gambling he had once heard his father make—­’When you’re fleeced you’re sick, and when you fleece you’re sorry—­Jolly contented himself with: 

“Rotten game, I think; I was at school with that chap.  He’s an awful fool.”

“Oh!  I don’t know,” said Val, as one might speak in defence of a disparaged god; “he’s a pretty good sport.”

They exchanged whiffs in silence.

“You met my people, didn’t you?” said Jolly.  “They’re coming up to-morrow.”

Val grew a little red.

“Really!  I can give you a rare good tip for the Manchester November handicap.”

“Thanks, I only take interest in the classic races.”

“You can’t make any money over them,” said Val.

“I hate the ring,” said Jolly; “there’s such a row and stink.  I like the paddock.”

“I like to back my judgment,"’ answered Val.

Jolly smiled; his smile was like his father’s.

“I haven’t got any.  I always lose money if I bet.”

“You have to buy experience, of course.”

“Yes, but it’s all messed-up with doing people in the eye.”

“Of course, or they’ll do you—­that’s the excitement.”

Jolly looked a little scornful.

“What do you do with yourself?  Row?”

“No—­ride, and drive about.  I’m going to play polo next term, if I can get my granddad to stump up.”

“That’s old Uncle James, isn’t it?  What’s he like?”

“Older than forty hills,” said Val, “and always thinking he’s going to be ruined.”

“I suppose my granddad and he were brothers.”

“I don’t believe any of that old lot were sportsmen,” said Val; “they must have worshipped money.”

“Mine didn’t!” said Jolly warmly.

Val flipped the ash off his cigarette.

“Money’s only fit to spend,” he said; “I wish the deuce I had more.”

Jolly gave him that direct upward look of judgment which he had inherited from old Jolyon:  One didn’t talk about money!  And again there was silence, while they drank tea and ate the buttered buns.

“Where are your people going to stay?” asked Val, elaborately casual.

“‘Rainbow.’  What do you think of the war?”

“Rotten, so far.  The Boers aren’t sports a bit.  Why don’t they come out into the open?”

“Why should they?  They’ve got everything against them except their way of fighting.  I rather admire them.”

“They can ride and shoot,” admitted Val, “but they’re a lousy lot.  Do you know Crum?”

“Of Merton?  Only by sight.  He’s in that fast set too, isn’t he?  Rather La-di-da and Brummagem.”

Val said fixedly:  “He’s a friend of mine.”

“Oh!  Sorry!” And they sat awkwardly staring past each other, having pitched on their pet points of snobbery.  For Jolly was forming himself unconsciously on a set whose motto was: