Mackrell shook his head.
"I had all I want in town," he said, sitting down opposite Chris. He look tired and ill; it is always easier for a dark man to look out of sorts than a fair one, and in spite of all that he had lately suffered, Chris had the advantage of the other at that moment.
"It's a rotten game, Trotting," said Carlton abruptly, "and I'm more than sorry I ever encouraged Miss Gay to go in for it. But she has won her Gold Vase, and now I hope she'll chuck the whole thing, especially"—he smiled—"as I'm chucked."
Chris looked into the fire,
"When you think of the practices that go on at the game," said Mackrell, "how a man will win a race with a certain horse, then fake him, change his name, and enter him for another race under a different name, and that the Stewards spend half their time investigating 'shady cases,' it's almost an honour to be fired out—at least, I know Rensslaer would think so."
Chris was still silent, staring into the fire.
"Can't you speak, man?" cried Mackrell irritably.
"You have laid Miss Gay under an obligation," said Chris quietly. "She is the soul of honour—as you well know—and she will pay it to the last penny. She gets her Gold Vase—yes, but you have played to get what is worth a million gold vases—herself."
Mackrell uttered an exclamation of anger and half rose, but Chris went on unmoved with what he had to say.
"Has it struck you that we are both rotters—both utterly selfish in our aims and pursuits—that neither of us is good enough for that dear little girl—that Rensslaer is a far finer sportsman, and better all-round man than either of us? He is doing real good with his breeding stables, and improvement of the breed of horses—he pursues a definite aim that the State should be grateful for—that is appreciated by almost every country but England—but what good are you and I doing? Miss Gay hates my profession as jockey—its danger, its excitement, its more or less unhealthy surroundings—yet I persist in following it, and when I come to grief, inflict pain on her.... And you, Mackrell, who lightly infect her with your own love for Trotting, who are mainly responsible for her taking up a rôle that few men would permit in a sister, are you much better than I am? You wanted her company, and you got it—and, as usual, it's the woman who has to pay."