"This is, indeed, an unexpected pleasure! Pray, when did you arrive?"
"Some time ago," she answered. "And you?"
"Only this morning; I have two ponies entered, one of them a celebrated performer; her name is"—and he looked at her with steady significance—"V. C."
"Oh!" she ejaculated. "What an odd name for a pony."
"Hallo, Salwey, how are you?" he said; "I did not see you"—then he glanced interrogatively at the bony, half-caste youth, Salwey's companion.
"No," replied Salwey, "and yet I'm generally visible to the naked eye."
"Miss Chandos and I," explained Captain Haig, "are—I hope I may say—old friends; we met each other year before last at Homburg. Poor Madame!" looking at Verona as he spoke, "so she is gone. What a cheery old lady she was! Shall we take a turn round the paddock? I want to show you your namesake." The young lady inclined her head and the pair strolled off, leaving Salwey and Nicky alone.
"I say," burst out Nicky, "I should not wonder if that fellow is a pal of Verona's."
"I should not wonder, either," repeated Salwey, and he became suddenly silent. Meanwhile, Verona and Captain Haig moved slowly round the paddock, where she was, as of old times, the cynosure of admiring eyes.
Captain Haig considered her critically. She looked a little pale and thin, but was as beautiful, as well turned out, as self-possessed as ever. There was the same perfection of dress and perfection of untroubled composure, and he had never forgotten her—so he imagined now; she had exercised over him a lasting and vivid fascination.