“She's got a big weight up,” he answered. “She's a little bit of a thing, and it may drive her into the ground coming down the Eclipse hill. I expect they'll come at a terrible jog, too; they don't often hang back on that course.”
Now that the betting worry and the labor of getting an honest boy were over—that the horses had gone to the post, and that the race rested with Lucretia herself, Porter's mind had relaxed. Even at the time of the very struggle itself tension had gone from him; he was in a meditative mood, and spoke on, weighing the chances, with Allis as audience.
“But they'll have to move some to beat the little mare's trial—they'll make it in record time if they head her, I think.”
“Isn't the horse that beat her the other day in, too, father?”
“The Dutchman-yes, but I fancy his owner is backing my mare.”
“Father!”
“It wouldn't make any difference, though; she'd beat him anyway. If I'm any judge, he's short.”
Allis felt a rustle at her elbow as though someone wished to pass between the seats. The faintest whiff of stephanotis came to her on the lazy summer air. Involuntarily she turned her head and looked for the harsh-voiced woman who had been verily steeped in the aggressive odor the day of Lauzanne's triumph. Two burly men sat behind her. They, surely, did not affect perfumery. Higher up the stand her eye searched—four rows back sat the woman Alan had said was Langdon's sister. There was no forgetting the flamboyant brilliancy of her apparel. But the almost fancied zephyr of stephanotis was mingling with the rustle at her elbow; she turned her head inquiringly in that direction, and Crane's eyes peeped at her over the stone wall of their narrow lids. He was standing in the passage just beyond her father, now looking wistfully at the vacant seat on her left.
“Good afternoon, Miss Porter—how are you, Porter? May I sit here with you and see Lucretia win?”
“Come in, come in!” answered Porter, frankly.