The crowd was streaming out of the paddock as Verona turned in the same direction; her heart was beating with unusual speed. He--although he knew she was now penniless--was anxious to resume the story where it had been interrupted. At least, he was not mercenary. Formerly she had liked him--now--now--no--she could not have fallen in love in fifteen minutes' time--impossible! But circumstances alter cases; at home among a crowd of suitors he was not distinctive, here he stood forth as a hero--a champion--it might be a saviour! Undoubtedly he loved her. If he held out his hand she would accept it, and her release. Her burthen had become intolerable; her fortitude was ebbing fast. Her mother's humours, her mother's tongue were distracting; a recent long illness had weakened her self-command. She felt desperate--and if she did not love Malcolm Haig now, love would come. Perhaps he would ask her to marry him--everything pointed that way. But he had not seen her relations--how would they affect the situation? Formerly, she stood above him; he was insignificant and impecunious; but at present their positions were entirely reversed, and _he_ must stoop to marry her. All these thoughts were chasing one another through her mind as Verona moved slowly forward, with the intention of joining her family. Yes, there they were--in the middle of the second tier; and never before had they struck her as so dark, so over-dressed, and so complacent. Blanche, in a scarlet felt hat and a purple velvet bolero, trimmed with mother-of-pearl (which she had bought second-hand), was an object that, so to speak, hit one in the eye; and even Pussy's sweet face, above the pride of her wardrobe, the pink feather boa, had never looked so dusky. "Hullo, Verona!" cried Blanche, half rising as she spoke. Blanche occasionally gave the impression of being all eyes and teeth. "Do tell us about the lovely young man you were walking with--who is he?" "I knew him at Homburg," she answered; "his name is Haig." "Oh, do bring him up and introduce him to _me_!" "Haig--Haig," repeated Monty, resplendent in lavender flannel and a brilliant green tie, examining the card in his hand, "Captain Haig, Enfield Regiment; he has two ponies--one in thees race, called Dulcimer, and another, with such a funny name, entered for the Cup--V. C." "V. C. is a ripping good pony," put in Nicky, who affected to be posted in racing matters; "Salwey says so." "Choop! you and your Salwey!" ejaculated his mother with angry energy. Meanwhile, Salwey and Captain Haig had ascended to the top of the stand, field-glasses in hand. "No start," remarked Salwey. "It's that brute Blue Devil," declared his companion; "he will keep them there for twenty minutes. I would like to shoot him!" "I daresay you would," rejoined Salwey; "he is the favourite, and sold for a thousand in the lotteries last night."