The fifth heat in the free-for-all was just over. "Lu-Lu" had won, and
the crowd on the grand stand and the hangers-on around the track were
cheering themselves hoarse. Clear through the noisy clamour shrilled a
woman's cry.
"Ah--I have dropped my scorecard."
A man in front of her turned.
"I have an extra one, madame. Will you accept it?"
Her small, modishly-gloved hand closed eagerly on it before she lifted
her eyes to his face. Both started convulsively. The man turned very
pale, but the woman's ripe-tinted face coloured darkly.
"You?" she faltered.
His lips parted in the coldly-grave smile she remembered and hated.
"You are not glad to see me," he said calmly, "but that, I suppose,
was not to be expected. I did not come here to annoy you. This meeting
is as unexpected to me as to you. I had no suspicion that for the last
half-hour I had been standing next to my--"
She interrupted him by an imperious gesture. Still clutching the
scorecard she half-turned from him. Again he smiled, this time with a
tinge of scorn, and shifted his eyes to the track.
None of the people around them had noticed the little by-play. All
eyes were on the track, which was being cleared for the first heat of
another race. The free-for-all horses were being led away blanketed.
The crowd cheered "Lu-Lu" as she went past, a shapeless oddity. The
backers of "Mascot", the rival favourite, looked gloomy.
The woman noticed nothing of all this. She was small, very pretty,
still young, and gowned in a quite unmistakable way. She studied the
man's profile furtively. He looked older than when she had seen him
last--there were some silver threads gleaming in his close-clipped
dark hair and short, pointed beard. Otherwise there was little change
in the quiet features and somewhat stern grey eyes. She wondered if he
had cared at all.
They had not met for five years. She shut her eyes and looked in on
her past. It all came back very vividly. She had been eighteen when
they were married--a gay, high-spirited girl and the season's beauty.
He was much older and a quiet, serious student. Her friends had
wondered why she married him--sometimes she wondered herself, but she
had loved him, or thought so.
The marriage had been an unhappy one. She was fond of society and
gaiety, he wanted quiet and seclusion. She Was impulsive and
impatient, he deliberate and grave. The strong wills clashed. After
two years of an unbearable sort of life they had separated--quietly,
and without scandal of any sort. She had wanted a divorce, but he
would not agree to that, so she had taken her own independent fortune
and gone back to her own way of life. In the following five years she
had succeeded in burying all remembrance well out of sight. No one
knew if she were satisfied or not; her world was charitable to her and
she lived a gay and quite irreproachable life. She wished that she had
not come to the races. It was such an irritating encounter. She opened
her eyes wearily; the dusty track, the flying horses, the gay dresses
of the women on the grandstand, the cloudless blue sky, the brilliant
September sunshine, the purple distances all commingled in a glare
that made her head ache. Before it all she saw the tall figure by her
side, his face turned from her, watching the track intently.
She wondered with a vague curiosity what induced him to come to the
races. Such things were not greatly in his line. Evidently their
chance meeting had not disturbed him. It was a sign that he did not
care. She sighed a little wearily and closed her eyes. When the heat
was over he turned to her.
"May I ask how you have been since--since we met last? You are looking
extremely well. Has Vanity Fair palled in any degree?"
She was angry at herself and him. Where had her careless society
manner and well-bred composure gone? She felt weak and hysterical.
What if she should burst into tears before the whole crowd--before
those coldly critical grey eyes? She almost hated him.
"No--why should it? I have found it very pleasant--and I have been
well--very well. And you?"
He jotted down the score carefully before he replied.
"I? Oh, a book-worm and recluse always leads a placid life. I never
cared for excitement, you know. I came down here to attend a sale of
some rare editions, and a well-meaning friend dragged me out to see
the races. I find it rather interesting, I must confess, much more so
than I should have fancied. Sorry I can't stay until the end. I must
go as soon as the free-for-all is over, if not before. I have backed
'Mascot'; you?"
"'Lu-Lu'" she answered quickly--it almost seemed defiantly. How
horribly unreal it was--this carrying on of small talk, as if they
were the merest of chance-met acquaintances! "She belongs to a friend
of mine, so I am naturally interested."
"She and 'Mascot' are ties now--both have won two heats. One more for
either will decide it. This is a good day for the races. Excuse me."
He leaned over and brushed a scrap of paper from her grey cloak. She
shivered slightly.
"You are cold! This stand is draughty."
"I am not at all cold, thank you. What race is this?--oh! the
three-minute one."
She bent forward with assumed interest to watch the scoring. She was
breathing heavily. There were tears in her eyes--she bit her lips
savagely and glared at the track until they were gone.
Presently he spoke again, in the low, even tone demanded by
circumstances.
"This is a curious meeting, is it not?--quite a flavor of romance!
By-the-way, do you read as many novels as ever?"
She fancied there was mockery in his tone. She remembered how very
frivolous he used to consider her novel-reading. Besides, she resented
the personal tinge. What right had he?
"Almost as many," she answered carelessly.
"I was very intolerant, wasn't I?" he said after a pause. "You thought
so--you were right. You have been happier since you--left me?"
"Yes," she said defiantly, looking straight into his eyes.
"And you do not regret it?"
He bent down a little. His sleeve brushed against her shoulder.
Something in his face arrested the answer she meant to make.
"I--I--did not say that," she murmured faintly.
There was a burst of cheering. The free-for-all horses were being
brought out for the sixth heat. She turned away to watch them. The
scoring began, and seemed likely to have no end. She was tired of it
all. It didn't matter a pin to her whether "Lu-Lu" or "Mascot" won.
What _did_ matter! Had Vanity Fair after all been a satisfying
exchange for love? He _had_ loved her once, and they had been happy at
first. She had never before said, even in her own heart: "I am sorry,"
but--suddenly, she felt his hand on her shoulder, and looked up. Their
eyes met. He stooped and said almost in a whisper:
"Will you come back to me?"
"I don't know," she whispered breathlessly, as one half-fascinated.
"We were both to blame--but I the most. I was too hard on you--I ought
to have made more allowance. We are wiser now both of us. Come back
to me--my wife."
His tone was cold and his face expressionless. It was on her lips to
cry out "No," passionately.
But the slender, scholarly hand on her shoulder was trembling with the
intensity of his repressed emotion. He _did_ care, then. A wild
caprice flashed into her brain. She sprang up.
"See," she cried, "they're off now. This heat will probably decide the
race. If 'Lu-Lu' wins I will not go back to you, if 'Mascot' does I
will. That is my decision."
He turned paler, but bowed in assent. He knew by bitter experience how
unchangeable her whims were, how obstinately she clung to even the
most absurd.
She leaned forward breathlessly. The crowd hung silently on the track.
"Lu-Lu" and "Mascot" were neck and neck, getting in splendid work.
Half-way round the course "Lu-Lu" forged half a neck ahead, and her
backers went mad. But one woman dropped her head in her hands and
dared look no more. One man with white face and set lips watched the
track unswervingly.
Again "Mascot" crawled up, inch by inch. They were on the home
stretch, they were equal, the cheering broke out, then silence, then
another terrific burst, shouts, yells and clappings--"Mascot" had won
the free-for-all. In the front row a woman stood up, swayed and shaken
as a leaf in the wind. She straightened her scarlet hat and readjusted
her veil unsteadily. There was a smile on her lips and tears in her
eyes. No one noticed her. A man beside her drew her hand through his
arm in a quiet proprietary fashion. They left the grand stand
together.