There is no more beautiful racecourse in the world than this arena set in the wooded Sussex hills. On a perfect July day, with its sense of spaciousness, of movement, and colour it may woo the most gloomy of mortals to a sense of rapturous delight in life. The more particularly will it affect a woman, if she is conscious that all the gay and elaborate display of summer "creations" worn by others of her sex only emphasise the triumph of her own dressmaker. Adèle Gertstein felt that both in herself and her frock she held her own among the fairest of the aristocracy and plutocracy of Britain. She strolled in the paddock sunning herself and exchanging greetings with her friends. She half-hoped that Larry Hughes might be there, although there were none of his horses running. It might be easier to deal with him face to face. It was possible that her letter had not been emphatic enough. Larry could be a hard man. She shook off a tremor of apprehension, and waved a hand lightly to an earl who was a director of one of Solly Gertstein's companies. The serious business of the day demanded attention, and she moved over towards the bookmakers. "Dickie" puckered his face as he saw her approach and whispered something under his breath to his clerk. But she passed him by with her head tilted in the air. She smiled winningly on another of the princes of the ring, who hesitated for the fraction of a second and then accepted her bet. So she made her rounds. There were men, perhaps not so blunt as "Dickie," who would have told her that their books were full on the horses she fancied. She did not risk these snubs. There were others who were quite willing to have the wealthy Mrs. Gertstein as a client, the more so as on the first race she was content with tens and twenties, instead of the hundreds with which she had plunged before those other men had become shy. She lost on the first race. The second, a selling plate, she increased her stakes with the idea of still showing a profit if Laburnham won. But Laburnham, a short-priced favourite, came in fourth and she was so far three hundred pounds down on the day. That hurt, but, after all, three hundred pounds was a trifle. There was no question but that Bonnie Chevalier would win the Stewards' Cup. The three-year-old, carrying but eight stone, was one of the biggest certainties of the day. There was nothing that could touch it.