I was very doubtful in my own mind of this; a horse of the Prime Minister's was to run, and all the betting was on that side. Few had seen 'Phosphor,' and those few, though keen admirers of the animal's appearance, had little opportunity of judging its actual qualities, thanks to the careful management of its two attendants, who were dark-faced, reticent-looking men, somewhat after Amiel's character and complexion. I myself was quite indifferent as to the result of the contest. I did not really care whether 'Phosphor' lost or won the race. I could afford to lose; and it would be little to me if I won, save a momentary passing triumph. There was nothing lasting, intellectual or honourable in the victory,--there _is_ nothing lasting, intellectual or honourable in anything connected with racing. However, because it was 'fashionable' to be interested in this particular mode of wasting time and money, I followed the general 'lead,' for the sake of 'being talked about,' and nothing more. Meanwhile, Lucio, saying little to me concerning it, was busy planning the betrothal-fête at Willowsmere, and designing all sorts of 'surprise' entertainments for the guests. Eight hundred invitations were sent out; and society soon began to chatter volubly and excitedly on the probable magnificence of the forthcoming festival. Eager acceptances poured in; only a few of those asked were hindered from attending by illness, family deaths or previous engagements, and among these latter, to my regret, was Mavis Clare. She was going to the sea-coast to stay with some old friends, and in a prettily-worded letter explained this, and expressed her thanks for my invitation, though she found herself unable to accept it. How curious it was that when I read her little note of refusal I should experience such a keen sense of disappointment! She was nothing to me,--nothing but a 'literary' woman who, by strange chance, happened to be sweeter than most women _un_literary; and yet I felt that the fête at Willowsmere would lose something in brightness lacking her presence. I had wanted to introduce her to Sibyl, as I knew I should thus give a special pleasure to my betrothed,--however, it was not to be, and I was conscious of an inexplicable personal vexation. In strict accordance with the promise made, I let Rimânez have his own way entirely with regard to all the arrangements for what was to be the _ne plus ultra_ of everything ever designed for the distraction, amusement and wonderment of listless and fastidious 'swagger' people, and I neither interfered, nor asked any questions, content to rely on my friend's taste, imagination and ingenuity. I only understood that all the plans were being carried out by foreign artists and caterers,--and that no English firms would be employed. I did venture once to inquire the reason of this, and got one of Lucio's own enigmatical replies:--