A little hush, a rush to the ring to see the horses for the next race. She wore a great frieze coat, like a man's, and a riding-hat, like a man's too. At a little distance she seemed like a boy in clothes too big for him, and as one came nearer, one noticed, between the collar and the brim of the hat, the sweet narrow neck and the hair gathered up like some very little girl's. There was something heart-pulling in it, like a child's curled fingers. And then she turned, and her face showed, pointed like a cub fox's. The cheeks flushed with the cold, the lips with a merry smile, her eyes with a deeper smile--there were so many there who knew her, and to whom O'Conor was presented, including an Irish duchess, with a voice like a saw, who rasped; "H' a' yo?" and then wailed, "My God! D' yo' ever see such a God-forsaken bunch o' mokes in all your life?" And a tall, thin baronet who asked him was he one of the O'Conors of Baltimore, to which he replied, no, that he was one of the O'Conors of Forty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenue. "Ah, yes! Ah, yes!" There was a French cavalry officer buying horses in Ireland, a dark, thin man with a heavy mustache, who looked more like a New York plain-clothes policeman than a hero of Algiers. Also, there was Mr. Kelly. Margery had noticed a great rangy gelding in the ring. He looked to have the power of a steam-engine. "See?" O'Conor nodded. "Flying Fish." A large red-faced man with a stout ash plant was passing. "Oh, Mr. Kelly!" "Ah, sure, Lady Margery!" "Do you know anything of Flying Fish?" She lowered her voice. "Is he a good horse?" "He is. And he is n't." "Might he win this race?" "He might. And he might n't." "You 're not telling me much." "I am," he looked wise, "and I am n't," he looked wiser. "Good enough," she said. "Come," she told O'Conor. Bookies crying raucously in the little ring. Signaling of touts. Milling of people. "I 'll lay two to one the field," a booky was shouting. His eyes were all but out of his cheeks. His shoulders hunched with effort. His voice exploded as though thrown against a wall, and he atomized a fine spray before him. "I 'll lay three to one bar one; I'll lay four to one bar two. I'll lay even money Munster Pride. Even money Irish Dragoon. Four to one Little Dorrit. Seven to two Carnation. Here, four to one Carnation. Eight to one Murderer's Pet. Twelve to one Irish Gentility. I 'll lay twenty to one--twenty to one Thunderbolt. Twenty-five to one Flying Fish--" "How much, Joe Jack?" "Is it you, Lady Margery? God love you. I'll lay you thirty to one Flying Fish. How much will you take?" "Ten pounds' worth." "Three hundred and ten pounds Flying Fish, Lady Margery Kyteler. I hope you win, m'lady. I do so there I 'll lay two to one the field. I 'll lay three to one bar one. I 'll lay four to one bar two--"