“Quite the Ascot touch,” he observed. “You can’t get the perfect sweep of the coat with your figure, but on the whole your man’s done you proud. Here alone?”
“Quite alone.”
“Tell you what, then, I’ll introduce you to my people. Best leg forward, old buck.”
Jacob followed his guide back through the tunnel, into the stand, up the stairs, and into a box on the second tier. The introduction was informal.
“Mother, want to introduce a pal—Mr. Jacob Pratt—Marchioness of Delchester—my sister, Lady Mary—dad. Now you know the family. What’s doing up here?”
The Marchioness, a handsome, thin-faced lady of advanced middle age, whose Ascot toilette was protected from the possible exigencies of the climate by an all-enclosing dust coat, held out her hand feebly and murmured a word of greeting. The Marquis, a tall, spare person, with aquiline nose and almost hawklike features, welcomed him with a shade of dubiousness. Jacob felt a little thrill, however, as he bowed over Lady Mary’s fingers. Her eyes were blue, and though her complexion was fairer and her manner more gracious, there was something in the curve of her lips which reminded him of Sybil.
“Do tell me, do you know anything for the next race, Mr. Pratt?” she asked. “I had such a rotten day yesterday.”
“I’m not a racing man,” Jacob replied, “but I was told that Gerrard’s Cross was a good thing.”
There was a general consultation of racing cards. The Marquis studied the starting board through his glasses.