‘I know that,’ retorted Nora; ‘but I’m getting the better of it every day.’
‘Well, you needn’t be flippant, my dear,’ replied her sister-in-law with a sniff. ‘Rank has its obligations, though you do not appear to think so. There might have been some excuse for your not knowing it before your marriage, but there is none now.’
‘No, I suppose not. All the same I’m going to the Derby this year, if I never go again.’
And off ran Nora to join her husband. The Derby day was for her a complete success. She was dressed becomingly—was in good health and spirits, and in the humour to enjoy all she saw and heard. Lord Ilfracombe’s drag, with its team of perfectly-matched chesnuts, was one of the handsomest in the Four-in-hand Club, and had always attracted particular attention when he turned out for the annual Park display. Their party consisted of the Duchess of Downshire, Lord and Lady Moberly, Miss Chetwynd, one of that season’s beauties, and several bachelors, amongst whom was Mr Jack Portland—the only drawback to Nora’s enjoyment. But she was seated behind her husband and the duchess, who occupied the box seat, and he was at the back of the coach, so that during the journey they did not exchange a word with one another. As soon as they arrived on the race-course, and the horses had been taken out of the shafts, the servants spread their luncheon, and they began to have a merry time of it. Presently Jack Portland’s voice was heard exclaiming, as he looked at someone through his field-glass,—
‘By George! if that isn’t Sir Archibald Bowmant, my Usk friend, and his wife. I told you, Ilfracombe, didn’t I, that I’m going to spend a few weeks with them next month. They’re the best fellows in the world. Awful fun! and don’t the old boy know a card when he sees it.’
‘Friends of yours, Jack?’ said Ilfracombe in his hospitable way. ‘Ask them to come here and lunch with us, old boy, if they’re not better engaged.’
‘Shall I? Have I your permission, Lady Ilfracombe?’ asked Mr Portland, looking at Nora.
‘Need you ask the question, Mr Portland,’ she replied without glancing his way. ‘If you have my husband’s leave, you have mine.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mr Portland as he descended from the coach. ‘They may be with another party; but I’ll just ask. I’m sure you’ll like them. Lady Bowmant is just your style.’
In a few minutes he returned with his friends, and introduced them to Lord and Lady Ilfracombe. Sir Archibald was a stout, florid, middle-aged man, with a jolly, good-tempered countenance, and weak, watery, blue eyes. His wife, to whom he had not been married a twelvemonth, was many years his junior, perhaps not more than five-and-twenty, and was as good a specimen of a fast young woman who just contrives not to step over the rubicon as could be found anywhere. She had been a nobody, and her head was completely turned by having become the wife of a baronet. She was decidedly pretty, with a countrified style of beauty, and she was fashionably but not well dressed. Her manner was effusive, and her voice loud, but she was lively, sparkling and amusing. Lady Ilfracombe, though indisposed to accord her a hearty welcome just because she had been introduced by Jack Portland, could not help thawing under her lively manner, and before long they were all on the most excellent terms.