"She isn't much to look at," she explained, "but she's grand to go—and I know she's going to win. She must win."
She kissed the animal impulsively on the soft, quivering nostril.
Together they threaded their way between the scurrying fowls and innumerable dogs that filled the yard—Clodagh leading the mare, Milbanke keeping close to her side.
"What is this race for?" he asked, as they passed through the arched gateway. "A mere trial of strength?"
Clodagh's eyes widened.
"Oh no," she said; "that would be silly. There are stakes of course—Larry's telescope against my Irish terrier. The telescope belonged to Uncle Laurence, and is a beauty; but it's nothing at all to Mick—Mick is a pedigree dog, six months old, with the finest coat and the loveliest head you ever saw. If I lost him——" But here she stopped. "It's unlucky to say that, isn't it?" she added quickly. "Of course I'm not going to lose him."
Again she turned and fondled the mare; and a moment later they came into view of the long, level fields that lay between the house and the sea, and saw the erect figure of Larry clearly silhouetted against the sky, as he sat his cob with the ease of the born horseman.
It took Milbanke but a few minutes to place himself in a safe and advantageous position on a ditch that, dividing two of the fields, was to form the last jump of the race. And once ensconced in this pleasant and not uncomfortable seat, he watched the cousins move across the fields to the point where little Nance was waiting to arrange the preliminaries. He saw Clodagh mount the grey mare, observed the one or two inevitable false starts, then became conscious with a quickening of interest that the race had begun.
Had he been possessed of the humorous quality he would undoubtedly have been drawn into a smile at his own position; as it was, he saw nothing ludicrous in the idea of an elderly student seated on an Irish ditch, playing umpire to a couple of children. As the horses started, he merely settled himself more securely in his seat, and drew out his handkerchief in obedience to the instinct that some expression of enthusiasm would be demanded by the winner. He could not picture himself raising a cheer as the conqueror sailed past him; but his dignity affably bent to the idea of a friendly wave of a handkerchief.
A slight breeze was blowing in from the sea, and the intense freshness of the atmosphere again obtruded itself upon him as he watched the horses swing towards him across the fields, the thud of their hoofs upon the grass gaining in volume with every stride.