“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.”

As she turned her horse from Lord Suckling, the cavalier who had saluted her when she was with Sir William passed again.  She made a signal to her groom, and sent the man flying in pursuit of him, while she turned and cantered.  She was soon overtaken.

“Madam, you have done me the honour.”

“I wish to know why it is your pleasure to avoid me, Major Waring?”

“In this place?”

“Wherever we may chance to meet.”

“I must protest.”

“Do not.  The thing is evident.”

They rode together silently.

Her face was toward the sunset.  The light smote her yellow hair, and struck out her grave and offended look, as in a picture.

“To be condemned without a hearing!” she said.  “The most dastardly criminal gets that.  Is it imagined that I have no common feelings?  Is it manly to follow me with studied insult?  I can bear the hatred of fools.  Contempt I have not deserved.  Dead!  I should be dead, if my conscience had once reproached me.  I am a mark for slander, and brave men should beware of herding with despicable slanderers.”