'Shan't you? Mind you, my dear, there are two good three-year-olds that are not to be sneezed at.' He shook his head solemnly.
It had never occurred to Dulcie for a moment to sneeze at three-year-olds. She hardly knew what they were.
'But what do you advise for me, papa?'
'My dear child, I can't advise. You can't select with any approach to confidence between Buttercup and Beautiful Doll. Mind you, I'm very much inclined to think that More Haste may win yet. Look how he ran in August, when nobody knew anything about him!'
'Yes, I know, papa, but—'
She gave it up.
'Go and see your mother, dear; go and ask her about it,' and he returned to the racing intelligence.
Strange that a man who had not enough to live on should think he could add to his income by backing losers. Still, such was Mr Clay's view of life. Besides, he was just going out; he was always just going out.
She would then go and see her stepmother, who greeted her most affectionately.
Dulcie only kept half her little income for herself at present, a considerable advantage to a woman like Mrs Clay, who declared she was 'expected to dress up to a certain standard, though, of course, simply during war-time.' She would kiss the girl and drag her up to her bedroom to show her a new coat and skirt, or send the general servant up to bring down the marvellously cheap little tea-gown that had just come home.