"It is getting worse and worse," declares Chips, from his standing-point at the window, where he has joined Miss Beatoun. "It is always darkest before dawn," says that young lady, with dauntless courage. "So they say," murmurs Lord Chandos, catching her eye, "Poor Thornton!" says Sir Mark, with deep sympathy; "I don't wonder at your depression--such a chance thrown away; and you always look so nice on wheels. Our friend Thornton, Mrs. Carrington, is impressed with the belief, and very justly so, that he is an unusually fascinating skater." "Quite so," returns Chips, ironically. "I wonder what you would all do if you hadn't me to laugh at? You ought to love me, I come in so handy at times and give you so many opportunities of showing off the brilliancy of your wit." "He grows sarcastic," murmurs Sir Mark. "This weather, instead of damping him, as it would more frivolous mortals, has the effect of developing his hidden powers." "Let us forget the weather," says Bebe, brightly, turning from the contemplation of it to sink into a seat by the fire, "and then perhaps it will clear. After making up our minds to go to Warminster and visit a rink, and dine at a hotel and drive home again in the dark and have a general spree, I confess, the not being able to do anything has rather put me out." We are all assembled in the library, it being the least doleful room in the house on a wet day. As Bebe speaks, we all try more or less (Marmaduke being included in the less) to put on a cheerful countenance and enter into light conversation. For the most part we succeed, and almost manage to forget our troubles. "Bye the bye, Thornton, you used to be a great man on the Turf," presently says Sir Mark, addressing Chips, _apropos_ of something that has gone before. Chips, who is lounging in a chair beside Miss Beatoun, his whole round boyish face one cherubic smile, looks up inquiringly. "Masters told me you were quite an authority." "Oh, not at all," returns Mr. Thornton, modestly: "I don't pretend to anything. I flatter myself I know a likely animal when I see it--nothing more." "I always thought you intended making your fortune in that line," continues Sir Mark, lazily. "The last time I met you, in the spring, you were radiant in the possession of so many more hundreds than you ever hoped to obtain." "Oh, Mr. Thornton, is it possible _you_ go in for betting?" murmurs Bebe, with a glance enchantingly reproachful. "I had placed you on such a high pinnacle in my estimation and _now_ what am I to think? I feel _so_ disappointed." "Don't," entreats Chips, sentimentally. "If _you_ begin to think badly of me, I shall do something desperate. Besides, I really only put on a mere trifle now and then; nothing at all to signify; wouldn't ruin a man if he were at it forever. You should see how some fellows bet. Don't you know---" "Did you do well last Ascot?" asks Chandos, in tone that is meant to be genial.