er of the pony did not appear to trouble
him.

"Jacob, old heart!" he exclaimed, leaning on his malacca cane and
pushing his silk hat a little farther back on his head. "God bless
you, my bloated capitalist! Three times have I rung up your office in
vain. Where have you been to, these days?"

"Getting about as usual," was the modest reply. "In the country, as a
matter of fact, for the last few weeks."

The young man considered his friend's attire and nodded approvingly.

"Quite the Ascot touch," he observed. "You can't get the perfect sweep
of the coat with your figure, but on the whole your man's done you
proud. Here alone?"

"Quite alone."

"Tell you what, then, I'll introduce you to my people. Best leg
forward, old buck."

Jacob followed his guide back through the tunnel, into the stand, up
the stairs, and into a box on the second tier. The introduction was
informal.

"Mother, want to introduce a pal--Mr. Jacob Pratt--Marchioness of
Delchester--my sister, Lady Mary--dad. Now you know the family. What's
doing up here?"

The Marchioness, a handsome, thin-faced lady of advanced middle age,
whose Ascot toilette was protected from the possible exigencies of the
climate by an all-enclosing dust coat, held out her hand feebly and
murmured a word of greeting. The Marquis, a tall, spare person, with
aquiline nose and almost hawklike features, welcomed him with a shade
of dubiousness. Jacob felt a little thrill, however, as he bowed over
Lady Mary's fingers. Her eyes were blue, and though her complexion was
fairer and her manner more gracious, there was something in the curve
of her lips which reminded him of Sybil.

"Do tell me, do you know anything for the next race, Mr. Pratt?" she
asked. "I had such a rotten day yesterday."

"I'm not a racing man," Jacob replied, "but I was told that Gerrard's
Cross was a good thing."

There was a general consultation of racing cards. The Marquis studied
the starting board through his glasses.

"Gerrard's Cross is a starter," he announced, "ridden by Brown,
colours brown and green. Belongs to Exminster, I see. Nine to one they
seem to be offering in the ring."

"I want a sovereign on," Lady Mary decided. "Hurry, Jack!"

"Nothing doing, child of my heart," the young man sighed. "Cleaned out
my pocketbook last race."

The young lady turned to her parents, who both seemed suddenly
absorbed in the crowd below.

"Bother!" she exclaimed. "And the numbers are up already!"