"Don't you?" She looked up into his face. "I'm too old," she said. "I've got to put my hair up this winter." The confidence once made frightened her. She broke into a canter, Heart of Oak striding at her side. The hill steepened against them just under the brow, and they came back into a walk. "If I was my own master I should farm and breed horses," said the young man. She glanced at him keenly. "Aren't you your own master?" He shook his head. "I've got to stick to the desk." "D'you like it?" He looked away. "I shall never make a banker," he said. "You see, I'm no good at sums." He flicked at the turf with his thong. "Now my father was a born financier. He could do that--and nothing much else. If there are no banks in heaven I'm afraid he'll be terribly bored. But I'm a farmer--or a fool; I'm not quite sure which. If my father had lived it might have been different. He might have entered me. But he died during my second year at Oxford four years ago, and I had to buckle to and do the best I could for myself." "Bad luck," said the girl. "It was, rather," admitted the young man. "But it gave me my head in one way. You see, father didn't approve of horses, though he was a farmer's son himself. He was afraid of the Turf. But he was always very good to me. He let me hunt when I was a boy though he didn't like it." The young man laughed. "But when I grew big he was awfully pleased. 'You'll never make a jockey now,' he used to say. And I never shall." Boy ran her eye approvingly over his loose, big-limbed figure. "You play polo, don't you?" she said. "I do, a bit," he admitted. "Back for England, isn't it?" she asked. "This old pony did," Silver answered. "And he used to take me along sometimes." "Don't you play still?" she inquired. "I haven't this season, and I sha'n't again," he answered. "To play first-class polo you must be in the top of condition. And they keep my nose too close to the grindstone. Besides, pup-polo's very jolly, but 'chasing's the thing!" They topped the brow. The crest of the Downs swelled away before them like a great green carpet lifted by the wind. "There they are!" cried Boy, beginning to canter. CHAPTER XIX Cannibal's National Old Mat sat dumped in familiar attitude on a cob as full of corners and character as himself. The trainer was thumping mechanically with his heels, sucking at the knob of his ash-plant, his legs in trousers that had slipped up to show his gray socks, and his feet shod with elastic-sided boots. He glanced shrewdly at the pair as they rode up. "Good morning, sir," he said, touching his hat. "So Chukkers has chucked you." "So I believe," answered Silver. "I wep' a tear when they tell me. I did reelly," said the old man, dabbing his eye. "He's goin' to ride Ikey's Jackaroo--that donkey-coloured waler he brought home from Back o' Sunday. That's what he's after." Silver nodded. "I'm not altogether sorry," he said quietly. "And I'm not entirely surprised."