“I only want to stay till the Three-year-old Cup has been run for,” said Cecil. “Mrs. Duncombe would feel it unkind if we did not.”
“You look tired,” said Rosamond, kindly; “put your feet upon the front seat—nobody will look. Do you know how much you cleared?”
“Not yet,” said Cecil. “I do not know what was made by the raffles. How I do hate them! Fancy that lovely opal Venetian vase going to that big bony Scotswoman, Mr. M’Vie’s mother.”
“Indeed! That is a pity. If I had known it would be raffled for, I would have sent a private commission, though I don’t know if Julius would have let me. He says it is gambling. What became of the Spa work-box, with the passion-flower wreath?”
“I don’t know. I was so disgusted, that I would not look any more. I never saw such an obnoxious girl as that Miss Moy.”
“That she is,” said Rosamond. “I should think she was acting the fast girl as found in sensation novels.”
“Exactly,” said Cecil, proceeding to narrate the proposed election; and in her need of sympathy she even told its sequel, adding, “Rosamond, do you know what she meant?”
“Is it fair to tell you?” said Rosamond, asking a question she knew to be vain.
“I must know whether I have been deceived.”
“Never by Raymond!” cried Rosamond.