“No; he shall not do it again.  It occurred yesterday, and on no other occasion that I am aware of.  He presumes that I am as excited as he is himself about the race—­”

The lady bowed to a passing cavalier; a smarting blush dyed her face.

“He bets, does he!” said Sir William.  “A young man, whose income, at the extreme limit, is two hundred pounds a year.”

“May not the smallness of the amount in some degree account for the betting?” she asked whimsically.  “You know, I bet a little—­just a little.  If I have but a small sum, I already regard it as a stake; I am tempted to bid it fly.”

“In his case, such conduct puts him on the high road to rascality,” said Sir William severely.  “He is doing no good.”

“Then the squire is answerable for such conduct, I think.”

“You presume to say that he is so because he allows his son very little money to squander?  How many young men have to contain their expenses within two hundred pounds a year!”

“Not sons of squires and nephews of baronets,” said Mrs. Lovell.  “Adieu!  I think I see a carrier-pigeon flying overhead, and, as you may suppose, I am all anxiety.”

Sir William nodded to her.  He disliked certain of her ways; but they were transparent bits of audacity and restlessness pertaining to a youthful widow, full of natural dash; and she was so sweetly mistress of herself in all she did, that he never supposed her to be needing caution against excesses.  Old gentlemen have their pets, and Mrs. Lovell was a pet of Sir William’s.

She was on the present occasion quite mistress of herself, though the stake was large.  She was mistress of herself when Lord Suckling, who had driven from the Downs and brushed all save a spot of white dust out of his baby moustache to make himself presentable, rode up to her to say that the horse Templemore was beaten, and that his sagacity in always betting against favourites would, in this last instance, transfer a “pot of money” from alien pockets to his own.

“Algy Blancove’s in for five hundred to me,” he said; adding with energy, “I hope you haven’t lost?  No, don’t go and dash my jolly feeling by saying you have.  It was a fine heat; neck-and-neck past the Stand.  Have you?”

“A little,” she confessed.  “It’s a failing of mine to like favourites.  I’m sorry for Algy.”

“I’m afraid he’s awfully hit.”

“What makes you think so?”

“He took it so awfully cool.”

“That may mean the reverse.”

“It don’t with him.  But, Mrs. Lovell, do tell me you haven’t lost.  Not much, is it?  Because, I know there’s no guessing, when you are concerned.”

The lady trifled with her bridle-rein.

“I really can’t tell you yet.  I may have lost.  I haven’t won.  I’m not cool-blooded enough to bet against favourites.  Addio, son of Fortune!  I’m at the Opera to-night.”