“Rather!”
“Jocelyn was always a sordid beast,” observed Claude in a brotherly manner. “He’d sell his soul for fifty pounds.”
But Jocelyn remained unmoved. “I don’t know about my soul,” he answered, “but you may have the brown filly at the price.”
“That imp of Satan? Not much!”
Jocelyn made no answer to Claude’s disparaging remark about the filly, but turned to Miss Trevelyan in a businesslike manner.
“When is it to be, and where?” he asked.
“We’ll make the usual start,” Anne answered. “But we shall have to wait till Bob’s wrist is all right again.”
“He isn’t wearing it in a sling any more,” said Jocelyn, who, for reasons of his own, was in a hurry to win his brother’s money.
“Call it three weeks from Monday,” said Anne, after a moment’s thought, during which she had mentally run over the list of her numerous engagements. “I’ll let you know the hour. We’ll start no matter what the weather is, of course. We always do.”
So the matter was settled much more easily than she had anticipated, and she was proportionately grateful to Lionel for making her lose her own small bet.