"And I never hunted—"
Chris believed him, as he waxed indignant over the cruelty done to the fox in fox-hunting.
"Why not trail a red herring across the country and let the hounds follow?" he demanded excitedly.
"If only some fox-hunters could get hold of you," cried Gay, who had come up behind them, "there wouldn't be a bit of you left!"
Chris chuckled as he led the girl away, but the eminent gentleman-jockey did not look his old, confident self that evening, and Gay put her own construction on it, as the band struck up a lively waltz.
"You're overtrained, old chap," she said, "too fine drawn—wasting again, I suppose, to ride another glorious winner, or achieve a more than usually severe purler"; but she did not, as she would once have done, smile as she said it.
"No," he replied, "I'm not overtrained, and I'm not anticipating another 'downer' just yet—not at racing anyhow," he added to himself, his face becoming serious.
After a couple of turns, to Gay's disappointment, for he was a perfect dancer, Chris steered her towards one of the doors, and led her down a corridor to a sitting-out place, which looked more secluded than it was.
Here he deposited the astonished Gay, and sat down beside her. He said nothing for a moment or two, and when he spoke, perhaps she had an inkling of what was coming.
"Gay, dear," he said, "I've got something to say to you, and I don't know how to begin."