“Will you do something for me if I ask you, Mr Lamont?” said Clare, as they found themselves a little apart from the rest, who were watching some high jumping.
“Certainly I will, Miss Vidal—er, that is—if I can.”
Really he was in good sooth doing his best to deserve Ancram’s verdict. That sweet bright face, looking up at him in a way that most of those present would have given something to occupy his shoes, surely deserved an answer less frigid, less halting. Clare herself felt something of this, and she replied—
“Oh, it’s nothing very great. I only want you to enter for the tent-pegging.”
He was relieved. He had contemplated the possibility of her requiring some service that would necessitate him leaving his post—hence the hesitation.
“Of course I will. But isn’t it too late to enter?”
“No. If it is they’ll have to waive the rule. I’m going to put money on you.”
“Oh, don’t do that. You’ll lose. That fellow Ancram has been riding my horse to death, the groom at Foster’s was quite surprised I should want to ride him up here now, all things considered. However, there he is. I’ll enter with pleasure, but don’t you plunge on me.”
“But I will, and you must win. Do you hear, you must win.”
“I’ll try my best, and can’t do more.”