He then proceeded to tell me how his debts had been paid by Sam Lewis—­the money-lender—­through an unknown benefactor and how he had begged Lewis to tell who it was, but that he had refused, having taken his oath never to reveal the name.  My heart beat and I said a remarkably stupid thing: 

“How wonderful!  But you’ll have to pay him back, Peter, won’t you?”

Peter:  “Oh, indeed!  Then perhaps you can tell me who it is ...”

Margot:  “How can I?”

Peter:  “Do you know who it is?”

Margot:  “I do not.”

I felt the cock ought to have crowed, but I said nothing; and Peter was so busy greeting his friends in the field that I prayed he had not observed my guilty face.

Some days after this there was a race meeting at Leicester.  Lord Lonsdale took a special at Oakham for the occasion and the Manners, Peter and I all went to the races.  When I walked into the paddock, I saw my new friend—­the owner of Jack Madden—­talking to the Prince of Wales.  When we joined them, the Prince suggested that we should go and see Mrs. Langtry’s horse start, as it was a great rogue and difficult to mount.

As we approached the Langtry horse, the crowd made way for us and I found my friend next to me; on his other side was Peter Flower and then the Prince.  The horse had his eyes bandaged and one of his forelegs was being held by a stable-boy.  When the jockey was up and the bandage removed, it jumped into the air and gave an extended and violent buck.  I was standing so near that I felt the draught of its kick on my hair.  At this my friend gave a slight scream and, putting his arm round me, pulled me back towards him.  A miss is as good as a mile, so after thanking him for his protection I chatted cheerfully to the Prince of Wales.

There is nothing so tiring as racing and we all sat in perfect silence going home in the special that evening.

Neither at dinner nor after had I any opportunity of speaking to Peter, but I observed a singularly impassive expression on his face.  The next day—­being Sunday—­I asked him to go round the stables with me after church; he refused, so I went alone.  After dinner I tried again to talk to him, but he would not answer; he did not look angry, but he appeared to be profoundly sad, which depressed me.  He told Hoppy Manners he was not going to hunt that week as he feared he would have to be in London.  My heart sank.  We all went to our rooms early and Peter remained downstairs reading.  As he never read in winter I knew there was something seriously wrong, so I went down in my tea-gown to see him.  It was nearly midnight.  The room was empty and we were alone.  He never looked up.

Margot:  “Peter, you’ve not spoken to me once since the races.  What can have happened?”

Peter:  “I would rather you left me, please. ...  Pray go back to your room.”