“That’s the spirit,” Jessica laughed, only partly in jest. “And yet if you lose, dear, you won’t blame me, I hope.”
Preston bit his lip, but said nothing more. Directly he had said that Yootha wouldn’t play, he had realized his want of tact. No woman likes to be thwarted, least of all before acquaintances, and by the man she is going to marry. Had he remained silent she would, he felt sure, have said of her own accord that she preferred not to play.
He lit a cigar and stood watching the game while Jessica found seats at the table and made Yootha take the vacant one beside her. Stapleton and La Planta stood just behind.
“Give me your money,” Jessica said in an undertone to the girl. “I will add it to my own, and then we shall be backing the same horses and my luck, if I have any, will be yours too.”
With a growing feeling of excitement, Yootha produced from her handbag a roll of paper money, counted it carefully, and handed it to her companion.
“That is all I can afford,” she whispered. “You’ll do the best you can with it, won’t you? I do so want to win.”
“Oh! that is plenty,” Jessica answered, as she picked up the notes, and after counting them, placed them on top of her own sheaf.
Then, for some minutes, she watched the play closely.
“Now I am going to start,” she said suddenly, and pushed a heap of paper on to one of the names of the horses.
The little horses spun around, passing one another, some gradually dropping back, others overtaking, the leaders. Then came the monotonous “Rien n’va plus” from the croupier; the horses began to slacken speed, went slower and slower—stopped.