"Yes, but such lucky shots don't come off twice in one week." The Farrars came back at this moment in very low spirits, for they had had bad luck all day. "Well," I said, "I'm rolling, anyway. And you're all going to dine with me to-night and the balance shall go to the hospitals--as though I had won it in France." "But why don't you follow your luck and put in on a horse?" Dollie gasped. "Not for another year," I said. "I bet only at the Derby. I couldn't stand the wear and tear of it oftener. It's too exciting. My heart is beating at this moment like a propeller. I want a quiet life. Besides, think of Naomi--you know the miseries in store for a gambler's wife. And another thing--I have it very clearly fixed at the back of my head--and nothing that I have seen to-day alters the feeling--that there is nothing to pluck on a race-course but Dead Sea fruit." "We will now sing hymn one hundred and forty-two," said Dollie, with great solemnity; "Wow-wow!" I approached Farrar with an expression of sympathy for his losses. "Oh, that's nothing," he replied. "I'm still on the right side for the year and I'll pull this round safe enough. Things look blackest before the dawn, don't you know." "If you take to proverbs," said Sir Gaston, who was standing by, "you'll never know where you are, for there's a neutralizer for every one of them." "I can give Farrar an example," I said, "that will take some neutralizing--'The grey mare's the better horse.'" Farrar groaned, but his wife laughed. "Thank you, Mr. Falconer," she said; "what a pretty compliment!" Which only shows how we stumble on some of our neatest things. CHAPTER XVII IN WHICH AN OLD GAMBLER (RETIRED FROM BUSINESS) TELLS OF A TRIUMPH, AND THE YOUNGER GENERATION IN LOVE COME UNDER REVIEW On the way back Sir Gaston told us of an incident many years ago, when he did occasionally put something on a horse--not as a habit, but if he heard anything. He had been staying, he said, with two friends for a fortnight in Ireland, fishing at a man named Regan's. One friend was Glenister, a curious obstinate fellow, now in India; the other was Horace Bradley, the K.C. The day before their last they were driving over to Rushtown to see the races, and on the way Captain O'Driscoll overtook them in his American buggy. I reconstruct Sir Gaston's story. "'Going to the races?' O'Driscoll asked, as he slowed down for a moment. 'So'm I. See you there.' He clicked on, and then, stopping again, turned round to call out--'Don't forget Blackadder for the College Stakes. Dead cert. Put your shirts on,' and was again off. "'All very well,' said Glenister thoughtfully, 'but where are our shirts? Speaking personally, my shirt is a return ticket to London and about eighteen shillings, which I shall need.' "'Yes,' said Bradley. 'And I'm no better off, confound it!'