“N-o—I think not,” looking across at her husband interrogatively.
“Oh!” responding to her glance, “he is going right enough. He is to ride my horse, don’t you know—Tornado. I can’t get a jockey, and if I could now I would not change for the best professional in England.”
“Do you mean that my husband is going to ride?” she asked with a quaver of consternation in her voice.
“Yes; it is awfully good of him, is it not?”
“Awfully good of him,” she repeated mechanically, her face as white as the cloth.
“Reginald, you are not really going to ride Tornado?” said Geoffrey incredulously. “If you are, I hope you have made your will.”
“I have made my will, and I have made up my mind to ride Tornado. Come to the races to-morrow and see him win.”
“Or see you killed,” replied Geoffrey; “which?”
“You are a Job’s comforter with a vengeance. Your remarks are certainly not calculated to inspire a nervous man with confidence. Let us make a move to the drawing-room,” observed Reginald, anxious to avoid further discussion and the objections he sees that Helen and Mark are preparing to hurl at him, and determined to postpone the struggle.
The party in the drawing-room scattered about and broke up into groups of twos and threes. Miss Ferrars and Captain Campell strolled to the piano, and Captain Vaughan laid himself out to improve his acquaintance with Lady Fairfax. As he drew a chair near the table at which she was sitting, she said: