‘Really, Mrs Monteath,’ he said nervously, ‘you need not feel in the least upset. I assure you, there is no need to worry like this. Old Foxtall, the horse that Walter is going to ride, has never put a foot wrong in his life, never. Please believe me. He may be a bit slow, but there’s no safer ride in the country. Surely you must realize that I would never think of putting Walter up on one of my horses unless I knew that it was perfectly safe – would I, Mrs Fortescue?’
‘No, of course not, darling,’ said Amabelle, looking at him affectionately; ‘but all the same, I do think it’s rather dreadful for my poor Sally, and none of us are blessing you exactly, because now, you see, we shall all have to go out in this ghastly east wind to see Walter doing or dying, whereas otherwise we might have drunk our cherry brandy by the fire and imagined ourselves at the point-to-point instead. Now, Walter dear, before I forget, I mean to bet five shillings on you, not that I imagine for a moment that I shall win anything, but just for old sake’s sake, don’t you know.’
‘Each way, or win only?’ said Walter professionally. (‘If you don’t stop crying like this, Sally, I shall divorce you – I wish you’d try to be more controlled on these occasions; think of the women of Sparta, can’t you?’) It may make all the difference to my tactics when approaching the last fence. You see, if it’s win only I might feel obliged to bump and bore a bit, otherwise I should probably sit tight and get a comfortable third. So make up your mind and let me know, will you?’
‘That’s all right, old boy,’ said Paul. ‘You ride a really filthy race. Above all, don’t miss any opportunity to cross Captain Chadlington; he’s riding a horse called Stout Unionist (out of True Blue by Brewery) and I shall die if he wins.’
‘Oh, so he’s back again, is he?’
‘Yes, he came back for the point-to-point last night.’
‘How’s the Infernal Machine?’
‘Grand. He’s going to ask a question about it in the House.’
‘I think we should be going on out,’ said Amabelle, ‘although a more unpleasant idea in this weather I can hardly imagine, myself! Just listen to the wind, howling down the chimney – ugh! Come on, Sally, my poor darling, I can lend you a fur coat and a nice big hankie, and we might tie hot-water bottles next to our tummies, don’t you think? Very nice and pregnant we shall look, too.’ She led the weeping Sally from the room.
‘You’ll be blind, you know, Walter, old boy, if I may say so,’ remarked Paul, who had been watching Walter fill his glass with unusual abandon.
‘Yes, I mean to be,’ said Walter. ‘I’m terrified,’ he added confidentially as Major Stanworth left the room, ‘never been so frightened in my life. But nothing hurts nearly so much if you’re drunk, does it? I once saw a drunk man fall thirty feet, on to a stone pavement, too; he wasn’t hurt a bit. Come on, then; are we all ready for the pretty spectacle of my demise? Cheer up, Sally, think of the Roman matrons, darling. Besides, you’re quite attractive enough to get some more husbands, though, of course, I doubt you finding anything quite up to my form again. Have we got lots of cherry brandy in the car?’
The point-to-point course lay on the exposed and wind-swept side of a hill and the cold which assailed Amabelle’s party on their arrival at this scene of action was beyond what would be thought possible by anyone not accustomed to the pleasures of rural England in winter. Walter, by now fairly drunk, got out of the car and strode about in his overcoat, accompanied by Major Stanworth, Paul and Bobby. He went down to look at the water jump, had a talk to Major Stanworth’s groom, and generally behaved in what he imagined to be a professional manner. Amabelle and Sally huddled up together for warmth in the Rolls-Royce, clasping innumerable hot-water bottles and refusing to move out of it until Walter’s race should begin. This was third on the programme. After the first race, at which there were many accidents, poor Sally was even further depressed by seeing the motor ambulance leave the course with its groaning load. A reserve of pride in her nature, however, prevented her from making any more scenes, and it was with a comparatively cheerful face that she went off to the paddock when the time came for Walter to mount. Amabelle still declared that nothing would drag her from the car, so Paul took Sally under his protection. He pointed out Captain Chadlington, whose ordinarily red face was now mauve from cold and harmonized unpleasingly with his racing colours of black, cerise cap and old-gold sleeves. Lady Brenda, in expensive tweeds and holding a brown leather shooting stick, was talking to friends nearby; it seemed to Sally that she was viewing her husband’s approaching peril with unnatural calm.
‘You can go into the paddock, if you like, Sally,’ said Bobby, who was accompanied by a pretty little Jewess with thin legs and a spotted scarf.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t dare,’ shivered Sally, ‘your mother looks too forbidding today, doesn’t she? Besides, Lady Prague is in there.’
At last the terrible moment came and the crowd round the paddock drew back to make a path for the horses, who jogged off with much tossing of heads and jingling of harness towards the start. They were soon lost to sight over the brow of the hill, and Walter was last seen leading the field at an uncontrolled gallop and fishing madly in the air for a stirrup with his left foot.
‘Now,’ said Paul, taking Sally’s arm in a fatherly manner, ‘where would you like to go? Shall we watch the race from the winning post or
