"Dorothy Clarehaven. Listen," she said, hurriedly. "Once you lent me money, or at any rate you helped me make money, and you were always very decent about it. Won't you do the same thing again? You know that Tony is putting everything on the ability of one of our two horses to win the Derby. Tell me—there's every reason to suppose he will win the Derby—why shouldn't you lend him enough to prevent his selling Clare?"
"Why not, indeed?" said Mr. Houston. "But what's the security?"
"Aren't the horses a security?"
"Horses are very capricious, almost as capricious as women."
"Would you prefer a woman as security?" she asked, trying to rake up from nine years ago a coquetry that had once been so profitable. It was easier by telephone. "Supposing I offered myself as security?"
So much was she playing a part of long ago that instinctively she had used her old invincible gesture of lightly touching a man's sleeve. That also was easier by telephone.
"I could lend a good deal," twanged the voice of the buyer along the wires. "I could lend a good deal."
"Very well then," said Dorothy. "Lend me the money."
"By telephone? Not good enough. Come, come, let's be frank, let's be brutally frank. You know you're worth twenty Derby winners to me; but, as I said, women are more capricious than horses. I'm no longer a schoolboy. Are you in earnest or not?"
"Of course I'm in earnest," she said. "Why should you think I wasn't?"