"I've been down at Maynesfort."
"Oh yes, to see the old man! Getting on all right, isn't he? and now you're doing a bit of town, eh?—What are you backing for the big race?"
As Mayne discussed the favourites and weights, he noticed that Nancy had recovered her composure and colour; her self-possession was marvellous; but then he was not aware, that she had been through a rigorous training in a stern school, and had learnt to successfully repress her feelings and emotions. For the moment, she appeared to be engrossed in the study of her race card; but unless Mayne was greatly mistaken, it was not altogether the oscillation of the express, which caused that pretty little hand, to shake quite perceptibly!
CHAPTER XXVII
OLD FRIENDS AND STRANGE NEWS
By some unexplained miracle it turned out that Nancy's chaperon—Lady Jane Wynne—had actually caught the train, and Mayne overheard the party volubly congratulating one another, as they moved out of the station. And so that slim girl in white, carrying a green sunshade, was Mrs. Mayne! Among all that great crowd, there was no one to approach her in looks and distinction. If people were to know the truth, how widely he would be envied!
His uncle clamoured for him to take a wife, and there she was, strolling up the path in front of him—supported on either hand by an assiduous escort. Supposing he were to claim her? Here was a very different individual to the poor little girl in India, who was distracted with grief, and misery. There was something amazingly attractive about this new, and radiant Nancy. His inspection in the railway carriage, had shown him, an undeniably happy face!
Meanwhile the object of his reflections,—for all her assumed animation—felt shattered, by her recent experience, and talked the wildest nonsense to her companions, as she made her way to the stand. Here numerous acquaintances accosted, and surrounded her and her party. To-day, Miss Travers' gaiety was feverish, her colour unusually high, and her laugh almost hysterical. Soon after the second race, she complained of a headache, and sought a seat on the way to the paddock, where, attended by Sir Dudley Villars, she sheltered behind her sunshade.
Sir Dudley was not a racing man; cards, he could understand; but betting, and backing horses, he looked upon as childish! Races, were all right, as institutions—where you met your friends, had a fair lunch, inspected the newest beauties, and heard the latest gossip. To sit by Nancy Travers, studying her exquisite complexion, listening to her somewhat disjointed chatter, was a thousand times more agreeable, than being precariously perched on the top of a stand, following with a field-glass, the speedy movements, of a little bunch of thoroughbreds!