For Milbanke there was a moment of horrible suspense, and a succeeding relief that drove all thought of the race and its result far from his mind. Immediately the field was clear he scrambled from his position and hurried to where Clodagh was soothing the still frightened Polly. "Miss Clodagh," he began, "I am so sorry. I assure you it--it was not my fault." Clodagh was bending low over the mare's neck, her flushed face partially hidden. She made no reply to his confused and stammering speech. "Miss Clodagh," he began afresh, "you are not angry? You don't think it was my fault?" Clodagh laughed a little tremulously. "Of course not," she said. "How can you be so silly? I hadn't her properly in hand, that was all." As she finished young Asshlin cantered back, halting on the further side of the ditch. His face was also flushed and his eyes looked dark. "Look here," he said, eyeing Milbanke, "what did you mean by balking her like that? What were you doing with your beastly handkerchief? 'Twas no race, Clo!" But Clodagh looked up. "Oh yes, it was," she said. "It was all my own fault; I hadn't Polly in hand. I should have pulled her together and sent her over with a touch of the whip. Apologise, Larry! 'Twas a fair race." But Larry still hesitated, his glance straying doubtfully from one face to the other. "Honour bright, Clo?" he asked at last. Clodagh nodded. "Then I'm sorry, sir," he said frankly, "for saying what I said." Milbanke made a murmur of forgiveness; and a moment later Nance appeared upon the scene, breathless and full of curiosity. As Larry entered upon a voluble account of the finish in reply to her eager questions, Clodagh wheeled the mare round and trotted quickly across the fields in the direction of the house. For a moment or two Milbanke stood irresolute; then a sudden impulse to follow the mare and her rider seized him, and ignoring Nance and Larry--still absorbed in heated explanation--he took his way slowly across the green and springy turf. His crossing of the field was measured and methodical, and he had barely come within sight of the arched gateway of the yard when Clodagh reappeared--this time on foot. The tail of her habit was tucked under one arm, the struggling form of an Irish terrier was held firmly under the other. She came straight forward in his direction; and, reaching him, would have passed on without speaking. But he halted in front of her. "Miss Clodagh," he said, "you are hurt and disappointed." Clodagh averted her eyes. "I'm not," she said shortly. "But I see that you are." "No, I'm not." "Miss Clodagh, you are. Can't I do something?" Then at last she looked at him. Her cheeks were burning, and her eyes were brimming with tears that only pride held back. "It isn't the old race," she said defiantly. "It's--it's Mick." Two tears suddenly welled over and dropped on the red head of the dog, who responded with an adoring look and a wild attempt to lick her face.