'What are you laughing at?' demanded Rutolo, lividly pale, glaring at him from under frowning brows.
'It seems to me, my dear fellow,' returned Sperelli unmoved 'that you are a little out of temper——'
'And if I am?'
'You are at liberty to think what you like about my laughing.'
'Then I think it is idiotic.'
Sperelli bounded to his feet and made a stride forward with uplifted whip. By a miracle, Paolo Caligaro managed to catch his arm. Violent words followed. Don Marc Antonio Spada appeared upon the scene and heard the altercation.
'That's enough, boys—you both know what you have to do to-morrow—you've got to ride now.'
The two adversaries finished their dressing in silence and then went out. The news of the quarrel had already spread through the enclosure and up to the grand stand, increasing the excitement of the race. With a refinement of perfidy, the Contessa di Lucoli repeated it to Donna Ippolita.
The latter gave no sign of inward perturbation. 'I am sorry to hear that,' was her only comment, 'I thought they were friends.'
The crowd surged round the bookmakers. Miching Mallecho, the horse of the Conte d'Ugenta, and Brummel, that of the Marchese Rutolo, were the favourites; then came the Duke di Beffi's Satirist and Caligaro's Carbonilla. However, the best judges had not overmuch confidence in the two first, thinking that the nervous excitement of their riders must inevitably tell upon the racing.