“Really,” said Sidney, “I don’t see many, but there are one or two. That woman with the red face and the purple dress is Lady Generflex, and the man two boxes off hers on the right is Sir William Delaplage. Then that girl in pink who has just taken up her opera glasses is Lady Vivienne Shaw, and the man in the same box is Tom Cartwright, who was at Eton with me. Down in the stalls there are one or two men I know, and I think that’s all. Of course there’s old Fyves, next door. You know him, don’t you?”
Mrs. Vanderstein gazed with intent interest at the people he pointed out; and then let her attention wander back to the Royal box while Sidney talked to Barbara.
“Have you been racing?” she asked him soon.
“Off and on. I went to see my horse, Benfar, run the other day. He came in easily last.”
“I don’t think that man can ride him well. He’s a good horse. I saw him as a two-year-old.”
“There’s something wrong somewhere, that’s certain. If I don’t have better luck this year than I had last I shall give up keeping race-horses,” said Sidney with decision.
“Oh, you mustn’t do that,” cried Barbara in a tone of so much distress that Sidney laughed.
“Why do you care?” he asked.
“I care a lot. I never see anything of racing people nowadays, or meet anyone except you who knows a horse from a centipede. If you give up racing I shall feel that my last link of connection with the turf is severed.”
“Why don’t you get my aunt to bring you down to Epsom to-morrow?”