Hone laughed easily and swung himself free. "They've got some knowing little brutes of ponies, by the powers," he said. "They slip about like minnows. The Ace of Trumps was furious. Did you hear him squeal?"
He turned with the words to his own pony and kissed the velvet nose that was rubbing against his arm.
"And a shame it is to make him carry a lively five tons," he murmured in his caressing Irish brogue.
For Hone was a giant as well as a hero and he carried his inches, as he bore his honours, like a man.
Raising his head, he encountered Mrs. Perceval's direct look. She bowed to him with that regal air of hers that for all its graciousness yet managed to impart a sense of remoteness to the man she thus honoured.
"I have been admiring your luck, Major Hone," she said. "I am told you are always lucky."
He smiled courteously.
"Sure, Mrs. Perceval, you can hardly expect me to plead guilty to that."
"Anyway, you deserved your luck, Pat," declared Duncombe. "You played superbly."
"Major Hone excels in all games, I believe," said Mrs. Perceval. "He seems to possess the secret of success."