'You bet? Then I lay you three to one against. You need not pay, lady-fashion,' interrupted another voice ere she had time to reply. It was Dalel Beg, swaggering along fresh from a Vice-Regal hand-shake to assert his rights in society; notably with Mrs. Boynton, much to her tall companion's horror, for he had done his best on two occasions to get the offender kicked off a racecourse. The Mirza's flabby hand was now thrust out at Rose, but the riding-whip seemed a fixture in both of hers, as it would have been had the hand offered been fair instead of dark, for there was a certain class of men with whom the girl never shook hands. Lewis Gordon, watching her with curious impatience, as he often did in society, had often been forced to confess unwillingly that her instincts in this respect were generally right. This time her refusal gave him distinct pleasure. 'I don't bet lady's-fashion,' she replied coolly; then turning to Lewis, went on in the same tone: 'I believe I did promise, Mr. Gordon; so perhaps Major Davenant wouldn't mind half-a-dozen pairs to one on the mare.' 'Double the odds wrong way up,' smiled the Major, crossing over to her side. 'You wouldn't make your fortune as a bookmaker, I'm afraid. However, I'll take it, if you let me hedge for you.' 'You don't know Bronzewing. I do.' 'You don't know the field. I do. In fact, Gordon, if I had had any idea we were to be inundated with down-country ruck, I should have advised you to scratch. They don't want outsiders.' 'They will have to thole them, as we say north of the Tweed,' replied Lewis. As a rule he was shy of admitting his Scotch birth, and the pronoun sounded sweet in Rose's ears. 'What an arrant pirate you are, Gwen,' he said in a low tone as he took the place beside her _dandy_ vacated by Dalel Beg, who, after returning to her for consolation, had gone on to the tent. 'You have been betting against me, haven't you, dear?' 'Against Bronzewing, you mean. What chance can she have with the Confederation's Waler? If you were riding _it_--and I am so badly off for gloves.' As she looked at her lavender-cased fingers plaintively, she was as pretty and well-dressed a picture of gracious womanhood as the imagination could paint. The fact was mollifying and brought admiration to his eyes. 'Don't see it. Seems to me you want nothing. What a jolly shawl that is! too good, surely, to be crumbled up that way.' He was right. A white cashmere with a broad bordering in faint greys and lavenders is hardly the thing for a dust-cloth. Perhaps she was aware of the fact; anyhow, she coloured up. 'Not at all. I bought it for a mere song. Isn't it time you were weighing-in or something of that sort? they have been ringing a bell.' 'Directly. You see, I'm dressed and ready.' 'Yes, I see. You look so nice.'