Feo’s new man, Clive Arrowsmith, had driven her down to the races at Windsor. Two of his horses, carrying colors new to the betting public, were entered. No one knew anything about them, so that if they won, and they were out to win, the odds would be good. There was a chance of making some money, always useful. “I rather like this meeting,” she said. “It’s a sort of picnic peopled with caricatures,” and sailed into the enclosure, elastically, in more than usually characteristic clothes. She had discarded the inevitable tam-o’-shanter for once in favor of a panama hat, which looked very cool and light and threw a soft shadow over her face. She was in what she called a soft mood,—meaning that she was playing a feminine role and leading up to a serious affair. Arrowsmith was obviously pucca and his height and slightness, well-shaped, close-cropped head, small straw-colored moustache, straight nose, strong chin with a deep cleft, and gray eyes which had a way, most attractive to women, of disbelieving everything they said had affected Feo and “really rather rattled” her, as she had confessed to Georgie Malwood late one night. After her recent bad picks, which had left a nasty taste of humiliation behind, she was very much in the mood for an old-fashioned sweep into sentiment. She had great hopes of Arrowsmith and had seen him every day since Sunday. He was not easy. He erected mental bunkers. He was plus two at the game, which was good for hers. Altogether he was very satisfactory, and his horses added to the fun, on the side. “It’s rather a pet of mine,” he said, looking round with a sort of affectionate recognition, “because when I was at Eton I broke bounds once or twice and had the time of my life here. Everything tastes better when there’s a law against drinking. But I never thought I should come here with you.” “Have you ever thought about it then?” “Yes,” he said, leaning on the rail and looking under her hat with what was only the third of his un-ironical examinations. She had memorized the other two. Was she approaching the veteran class? “The day you were married I happened to be passing St. Margaret’s and the crowd of fluttering women held me up. I saw you leave the church and I said to myself, ‘My God, if I ever know that girl, I’ll have a try to put a different smile on her face,’” “You interest me, Cupid,” she said, giving him a nickname on the spur of the moment. “What sort of smile, if you please?” “One that wouldn’t make me want to hit you,” he answered, still looking. “You’ll never achieve your object on the way out of church.” “No, that’s dead certain.”