Marg. I know.
Clem. Besides, it's sixteen weeks yet to the Handicap.
Marg. Evidently he looks upon it as a clean "runaway."
Clem. Not quite—but where did you pick up your turf-lingo, Brava?
Marg. Oh, I used this kind of talk before I knew you. Is it settled that you are to ride Lord Byron yourself?
Clem. How absurd to ask! You forget, it's the Damenpreis Handicap. Whom else could I get to ride him? And if Horner thought for a moment that I wasn't going to ride him, he'd never put up one and a half to one. You may stake all you've got on that.
Marg. I'm well aware of that. You are so handsome when you mount a horse—honest and truly, too sweet for anything! I shall never forget that day in Munich, when I first made your acquaintance—
Clem. Please do not remind me of it. I had rotten luck that day. But you can believe me, Windy would never have won if it weren't for the ten lengths he gained at the start. But this time—never! You know, of course, it is decided; we leave town the same day.
Marg. Same evening, you mean.
Clem. If you will—but why?