At the moment Lord Savile came up with Mr. Benham.
“Are you betting, Savile?” asked the Duke of Devonshire, with a smiling glance at the young man.
Savile made a wry face.
“Confound it, my lord, I’ve lost fifty pounds on my mare, Lady Clara,” he said, “and Benham here has made a hundred on that little black mare of Godolphin’s,—the devil’s in it.”
“Ah, look at them!” cried Betty, pointing at the track, “they come flying like birds. Is that your black mare in the lead, Mr. Benham?”
“I’ll hang for it, if he hasn’t won again,” ejaculated Lord Savile, as they leaned forward to watch the squad of horses coming in on the home stretch.
There could scarcely be a finer sight: the smooth turf, the shimmer of sunshine, the beautiful animals running fleetly, for the joy of it, heads out, eyes flashing fire, foam on the lips, and manes flying, while the jockeys, like knots of color, hung low over their necks. The sharp clip of steel-shod feet, a stream of color, sparks flying, and they were past, going on to the stakes, while silence fell on the great throng of people; men scarcely breathed, every eye strained after them. Then suddenly a shout of exultation and despair, strangely mingled, and the whole crowd blossoming out into a mass of waving handkerchiefs and tossing hats.
“Ah, was there ever anything so pretty!” cried Lady Betty; “there is nothing finer than a beautiful horse.”
“Except a beautiful woman,” said my Lord of Ormond gallantly.
“Pray, my lord, do not put us in the same category,” said Lady Betty laughing; “’tis said that some men rate their horses dearer than their wives.”