“I see your success in literature is equaled by your success at the races. Could you tell me what will win the Suburban?”
“I will send you a wire in the MORNING,” said Carter.
They had arranged to dine with some friends and later to visit a musical comedy. Carter had changed his clothes, and, while he was waiting for Dolly to dress, was reclining in a huge arm-chair. The heat of the day, the excitement, and the wear on his nerves caused his head to sink back, his eyes to close, and his limbs to relax.
When, by her entrance, Dolly woke him, he jumped up in some confusion.
“You’ve been asleep,” she mocked.
“Worse!” said Carter. “I’ve been dreaming! Shall I tell you who is going to win the Suburban?”
“Champneys!” cried Dolly in alarm.
“My dear Dolly,” protested her husband, “I promised to stop betting. I did not promise to stop sleeping.”
“Well,” sighed Dolly, with relief, “as long as it stops at that. Delhi will win,” she added. “Delhi will not,” said Carter. “This is how they will finish——” He scribbled three names on a piece of paper which Dolly read.
“But that,” she said, “is what you told the gentleman at the bank.”