"Don't you think I'm a good judge?" asked this incorrigible person, with a smile of entire satisfaction.
She could not help laughing.
"Perhaps too good a judge," she answered, "but a judge that shall never find me guilty, I promise you! No; what I envy is your unrivalled sang-froid, your entire freedom from anxiety in a position that would make most people feel awkward, if not uncomfortable."
"Uncomfortable!" he repeated; "why uncomfortable! Ah! perhaps you're right, and I do want another cushion. I'd go and fetch it, Miss Ross, only I'd much rather stay where I am, and talk to you."
She shot another scornful glance, not that he was the least abashed by it, and went on:—
"You've got all sorts of duties, cares, responsibilities, but they don't seem to affect you in the least—property, debts, of course" (Sir Henry nodded assent), "politics, position, that charming daughter; a bad day yesterday—you see I know all about it—and a certain loss to-day, if you don't bestir yourself, on the Thames Handicap. Yet there you sit, as unmoved and almost as highly ornamented as a Hindoo idol. I wish I had your secret!"
"Very simple," answered the other. "Irons! Nothing but irons! Plenty of them, and put them all in the fire at once. Dividing your cares is like dividing your affections—one balances another, and you carry them as easy as a milkmaid carries her pails."
"That's all very fine in theory," replied Miss Ross; "but there's such a thing as spilt milk, and a dozen cold irons won't prevent a hot one burning your fingers. There's a hot one to-day in the Thames Handicap. Never mind how I know it, Sir Henry, but I do know it. This horse they call Outrigger has no more chance of winning than your hat! Why do you tie that hideous gauze thing round it?"
Sir Henry was equal to the occasion.
"Suits my style of ugliness," he answered; adding, with well-assumed carelessness—"So Outrigger won't win, Miss Ross. Why won't he?"