“And you! you, Camilla, after what the turf has cost us, can wish me to encourage a man connected with it.”
“My dear Lena, I know you had a great shock, which made the more impression because you were such a child; but you might almost as well forswear riding, as men who have run a few horses, or staked a few thousands. Every young man of fortune has done so in his turn, just by way of experiment—as a social duty as often as not.”
“Let them,” said Eleonora, “as long as I have nothing to do with them.”
“What was that pretty French novel—Sybille, was it?—where the child wanted to ride on nothing but swans? You will be like her, and have to condescend to ordinary mortals.”
“She did not. She died. And, Camilla, I would far rather die than marry a betting man.”
“A betting man, who regularly went in for it! You little goose, to think that I would ask you to do that! As you say we have had enough of that! But to renounce every man who has set foot on a course, or staked a pair of gloves, is to renounce nine out of ten of the world one lives in.”
“I do renounce them. Camilla, remember that my mind is made up for ever, and that nothing shall ever induce me to marry a man who meddles with the evils of races.”
“Meddles with the evils? I understand, my dear Lena.”
“A man who makes a bet,” repeated Eleonora.
“We shall see,” was her ladyship’s light answer, in contrast to the grave tones; “no rules are without exceptions, and I only ask for one.”