She starts. She has never known Hector D’Estrange to err yet, and her husband’s rash act recurs more forcibly to her mind. “May I see Black Queen?” she inquires hastily.
“Certainly,” he answers; “come with me.”
They push through the crowd, still surging round the chestnut horse, and make their way across the paddock to a quiet spot, where very few people are observable. A coal-black mare has just been stripped, and her jockey is standing close beside her. His colours are tinselled-gold.
“That is Black Queen,” observes Hector D’Estrange quietly. “You are a good judge of a horse, Lady Flora; what do you think of her?”
She does not reply, but walks up to within a few paces of the mare, and looks her over keenly. She sees before her an animal which, to her eyes, used though she is to good-looking horses, is a perfect picture. The mare is coal-black; there is not a white hair on her; she is faultlessly shaped all over.
“I think that I never saw a greater beauty in all my life!” exclaims Flora Desmond, and there is a true ring of admiration in her tone. As she speaks the Duke of Ravensdale comes up.
“So you’re going to win the Derby, Bernie, are you?” he inquires jokingly, as he raises his hat to Flora Desmond, and holds out his hand to her. “Nice youngster that,” he continues, addressing her. “Gave me no peace till I gave him leave to ride, which I never should have done, had it not been at Hector’s request; and now I do believe that he thinks he is going to win!”
“I shall have a good try, Evie,” the boy replies in a mettled voice. “I can’t do more than ride my very best, can I, Mr. D’Estrange?”
“No indeed, my boy, that you cannot,” answers this latter kindly. “Do your best; no one can ask for more.”
There is a light in Bernie’s eye, a flush on his cheek. Flora notes them both. Full well she knows what they mean.