"Semiramis. I think she will win this race."
Pamela looked towards the mare, and saw, just beyond her, Mr. Mudge. He was alone, as he usually was; and though he stopped in his walk, now here, now there, to exchange a word with some acquaintance, he moved on again, invariably alone. Gradually he drew nearer to the group in which Pamela was standing, and his face brightened. He quickened his step; Pamela, on her side, advanced rather quickly towards him.
"You are here?" she said, with a smile. "I am glad, though I did not think to meet you."
Mr. Mudge, to tell the truth, though he carried a race-card in his hand, and glasses slung across his shoulder, had the disconsolate air of a man conscious that he was out of place. He answered Pamela, indeed, almost apologetically.
"It is better after all to be here than in London on a day of summer," he said, and he added, with a shrewd glance at her, "You have something to say to me--a question to ask."
Pamela looked up at him in surprise.
"Yes, I have. Let us go out."
They walked into the paddock, and thence through the gate into the enclosure. The enclosure was at this moment rather empty. Pamela led the way to the rails alongside the course, and chose a place where they were out of the hearing of any bystander.
"You remember the evening at Frances Millingham's?" she asked. She had not seen Mr. Mudge since that date.
Mr. Mudge replied immediately.