As we approached the Langtry horse, the crowd made way for us and I found my friend next to me; on his other side was Peter Flower and then the Prince. The horse had his eyes bandaged and one of his forelegs was being held by a stable-boy. When the jockey was up and the bandage removed, it jumped into the air and gave an extended and violent buck. I was standing so near that I felt the draught of its kick on my hair. At this my friend gave a slight scream and, putting his arm round me, pulled me back towards him. A miss is as good as a mile, so after thanking him for his protection I chatted cheerfully to the Prince of Wales.
There is nothing so tiring as racing and we all sat in perfect silence going home in the special that evening.
Neither at dinner nor after had I any opportunity of speaking to Peter, but I observed a singularly impassive expression on his face. The next day—being Sunday—I asked him to go round the stables with me after church; he refused, so I went alone. After dinner I tried again to talk to him, but he would not answer; he did not look angry, but he appeared to be profoundly sad, which depressed me. He told Hoppy Manners he was not going to hunt that week as he feared he would have to be in London. My heart sank. We all went to our rooms early and Peter remained downstairs reading. As he never read in winter I knew there was something seriously wrong, so I went down in my tea-gown to see him. It was nearly midnight. The room was empty and we were alone. He never looked up.
MARGOT: "Peter, you've not spoken to me once since the races. What can have happened?"
PETER: "I would rather you left me, PLEASE. … Pray go back to your room."
MARGOT (sitting on the sofa beside him): "Won't you speak to me and tell me all about it?"
Peter put down his book, and looking at me steadily, said very slowly:
"I'd rather not speak to a liar!"
I stood up as if I had been shot and said:
"How dare you say such a thing!"