“Got a week's leave, thank goodness. Most awf'ly slow time of year. Cubbin's pretty well over, an' we don't open till the first.”
He turned to the window. There in the sunlight the hedgerows ran golden and brown away from the clouds of trailing train smoke. Young Maydew shook his head at their beauty.
“The country's still very blind,” he said. “Awful pity you've given up your huntin'.”
Mrs. Bellew did not trouble to answer, and it was just that certainty over herself, the cool assurance of a woman who has known the world, her calm, almost negligent eyes, that fascinated this young man. He looked at her quite shyly.
'I suppose you will become my slave,' those eyes seemed to say, 'but I can't help you, really.'
“Did you back George's horse? I had an awf'ly good race. I was at school with George. Charmin' fellow, old George.”
In Mrs. Bellew's eyes something seemed to stir down in the depths, but young Maydew was looking at his glove. The handle of the carriage had left a mark that saddened him.
“You know him well, I suppose, old George?”
“Very well.”
“Some fellows, if they have a good thing, keep it so jolly dark. You fond of racin', Mrs. Bellew?”