“You've a quarter of an hour, gentlemen; we start at ten-fifteen.”
Mrs. Pendyce, left seated with a vague, ironical smile, ate one mouthful of her buttered toast, now very old and leathery, gave the rest to “the dear dogs,” and called:
“George! You want a new shooting tie, dear boy; that green one's quite faded. I've been meaning to get some silks down for ages. Have you had any news of your horse this morning?”
“Yes, Blacksmith says he's fit as a fiddle.”
“I do so hope he'll win that race for you. Your Uncle Hubert once lost four thousand pounds over the Rutlandshire. I remember perfectly; my father had to pay it. I'm so glad you don't bet, dear boy!”
“My dear mother, I do bet.”
“Oh, George, I hope not much! For goodness' sake, don't tell your father; he's like all the Pendyces, can't bear a risk.”
“My dear mother, I'm not likely to; but, as a matter of fact, there is no risk. I stand to win a lot of money to nothing.”
“But, George, is that right?”
“Of course it's all right.”