"Yes, I do, all the world and everybody," cried Syd. "We're married, but we're awfully in love with each other still--aren't we, darling?" "Awfully, Syd," cried Molly, hanging to him. "Well, I s'pose that's all right," grumbled the trainer, "and of course what's done, as I said afore, can't be undone. But, look here; I mean my gal to have her rights." "Of course, sir." "And I understand you mean to do the proper thing by her?" "Yes, dad. To be sure he does, and you're going to be ever so proud of Syd--proud as I am." "Well, I don't quite know that, but I've got something else to think about now, and so, after what you've said square and 'andsome, young gen'leman, here's my 'art and here's my 'and." The trainer illustrated his last words by putting his left hand upon his chest, too low down to satisfy an anatomist, and holding out his right. "There," he continued, after the business of shaking hands had been gone through, "all this talking has made me husky, so we'll have a glass of fizz, son-in-law, in honour of the occasion, just to wash it down." "No, no, no, no!" cried the girl. "Syd and I want to get out on the common to see all the races." "Bah! You two won't be thinking about the races, I know. Look here, though, son-in-law. Some day, I'll give you the right tip;" and then, in a whisper from behind his hand, "Jim Crow--the dark horse." "What for?" "What for?" cried the trainer, contemptuously. "Why, the cup." "Nonsense?" "That's right, boy." "No, no," cried Syd, giving his young wife's arm a hug. "La Sylphide." "Out of it. Jock in a straight weskit." "Out of it be hanged, sir! She runs to win, with Uncle Hilton up." "Come along, Syd," cried Molly, and the pair ran out like a couple of schoolchildren, nearly cannoning against Mark Willows, who was coming up with Sir Hilton's bag and overcoat, and making him turn to look after them, while Sam Simpkins stood gasping like a great, red-faced carp which had leaped out of the edge of a pond and landed in an element not suited to its nature. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE TRAINER'S TIPS. "Nonsense!" gasped the trainer, as soon as he could get his breath after the staggerer he had received. "The boy's in love--mad--don't know what he's a-saying of." "Well, I'm blest!" said Mark, turning round with a grin on his face. "He's begun to crow early. Day, Mr Simpkins. I say--" Mark did not say anything, but winked and jerked his thumb over his right shoulder in the direction the young couple had taken. "What do you want?" growled the trainer, surlily. "Room for the guv'nor--Sir Hilton Lisle, Bart--to dress for the race." "Then it is true," said the trainer to himself, as to hide his face from the groom he turned his back, walked to a bell-handle, and pulled it violently before returning. "Got a lot on our mare, eh, Mr Simpkins?" "No!" growled the trainer. "I heered she was not going to run." "Knowing ones ain't always right, sir."