The bell rang for the first race; and Simpson hurried him back to the lawn. A false start, a cloud of dust, and they were off, amid the wild cries of the multitude. He watched the little knot of gay colors bobbing around the track. How little they meant to him, and how much to all the throng around him! Starbuck turned and watched the mass of people with all the cynicism of a Caryl Wemyss. Close by him was a rather pretty, pale-faced girl; she was evidently very poor; a black jersey was all she wore and a lilac-twigged cotton skirt; but she rose to her feet, and shouted and clapped her gloveless hands. Between the races nothing would do but they must have some more beer; and they went behind the grand stand where the pool-booths were, and men, and women too, were drinking it. At the booths was a great press of disreputable men, crying hoarsely and waving rolls of dingy bank-bills at the gamblers. James saw that his friend had had too much to drink already; and he insisted on putting another “fiver” on his favorite. Above them in the stalls James could see the ladies drinking iced champagne and fanning themselves after the excitement of the race. He walked out upon the lawn again, where the well-dressed gentlemen were also making up their books; and went along to the sacred place reserved for private carriages. Here they had hampers; and young men in fawn-colored coats were leaning over the shoulders of pretty young women, having flirtations with them, which he, perhaps, interpreted too simply. “Really,” said one pretty face’s owner, “this is more like Longchamps than I had supposed possible!” “We are improving, Mrs. Malgam,” said the man. “New York will no longer be provincial, one of these days. And it is getting like Longchamps in more respects than one,” he added. “Have you seen that pretty woman just ahead of us with the cream-colored ponies?” “Dear me, how interesting!” cried the lady, levelling her opera-glasses in the direction indicated; and James Starbuck followed her look with his eyes, as he stood beside the carriage. “It seems just like being abroad to see such people! She _is_ handsome--and she’s awfully well dressed,” added the lady, candidly. “I never can get my woman to cut a dress for me like that. Who is she, Mr. Van Kull?” “You had better ask Mr. Townley,” said the other. “Ask Lucie Gower, you mean,” said a gentleman who had not yet spoken. “You know very well that that is not true of poor Lucie,” answered the first; “and my cousin would not thank you.”