“I'm afraid not, my Lady. Was it anything about sporting matters?”
“No, no; but now that you remind me, all that information you gave me about Glaucus was wrong, he came in 'a bad third.' My Lord laughed at me for losing my money on him, and said he was the worst horse of the lot.”
“Very sorry to differ with his Lordship,” said Spicer, deferentially, “but he was the favourite up to Tuesday evening, when Scott declared that he'd win with Big the Market. I then tried to get four to one on Flycatcher, to square your book, but the stable was nobbled.”
“Did you ever hear such jargon, my dear?” said Lady Lackington. “You don't understand one syllable of it, I'm certain.”
Spicer smirked and made a slight approach to a bow, as though even this reference to him would serve for an introduction; but Lady Grace met the advance with a haughty stare and a look, that said, as plainly as any words, “At your peril, Sir!”
“Well, one thing is certain!” said Lady Lackington, “nothing that you predicted turned out afterwards. Glaucus was beaten, and I lost my three hundred pounds—only fancy, dearest, three hundred pounds, with which one could do so many things! I wanted it in fifty ways, and I never contemplated leaving it with the legs at Newmarket.”
“Not the legs, I assure you, my Lady—not the legs. I made your book with Colonel Stamford and Gore Middleton—”
“As if I cared who won it!” said she, haughtily.