“Oh, Simon, Simon, I shall break. It’s like Death. I can’t face it.” “You can with me. We can face anything. What’s death to us, so long as we go out well?” Patricia lifted her head. “You’re right,” she said quietly. “We—we must go out well.” For a moment her eyes wandered over the heaven. Then they returned to his. She put up a little hand and touched his hair, setting it back from his temples and patting it as she pleased. Then she smiled very tenderly. “Let’s pick our flower now, darling.” The man smiled back. For a minute they kissed and clung—while the world rocked. . . . Then he loosened his hold, and she fell away. He picked up her hand and kissed her finger-tips. “My beautiful darling,” he said. “My sweet, my sweet.” Then he leaned back against the stone-work and took out a cigarette. For a moment he fingered this, smiling thoughtfully. Then he looked up. “Pat,” he said, “what about a glass of champagne? Between you and me, I think we’ve earned it.” “My dear,” said Patricia Bohun, “your brain’s in your head.” They started to stroll towards the mansion. “By the way, did I tell you to back Grey Ruby for the Stewards’ Cup?” “Who gave you that?” said Beaulieu. “No one,” said Patricia. “I dreamed it. I dreamed I saw the posters—STEWARDS’ CUP RESULT. I was wondering what had won when I woke to see Matilda with my letters and tea. The first letter I opened was from a girl called Ruby Grey.” Simon grunted. “I should have a bit on _sans doute_,” he said lightly. “But these ’ere indications are treacherous things. Look at poor Barley McFinn. Two nights before the St. Leger he dreamed he was giving bananas to a baboon; and as fast as he gave them the brute kept shaking its head and slinging them back. Well, Barley woke up and rushed off and put his binder on Monkey Nut. . . . Well, I don’t know where Monkey Nut finished, but a horse called Peelam won. Barley couldn’t see it for weeks.” Patricia laughed gaily. “You’re not a bit like your namesake, Simon,” she said. “He would have plunged. And yet . . .” “Yet what?” “In a way you are. I mean . . . Never mind. I’ll leave it there. What’s this they’re playing?” Conversing evenly, they came to the flagged walk and the windows belching ragtime and blazing lights. By one consent they turned and looked back into the night. Then they passed up the steps and joined the carnival. * * * * * Let who will throw a stone at Patricia Bohun.