Nothing but a keen sense of duty, coupled with the possession of _the_
smartest thing in waterproof overcoats ever seen, would have tempted
me to go racing last week; but the claims of Hurst Park were not to
be denied, and my reward was, assisting at perhaps the most successful
meeting ever held there--(the backers "went down" to a man, and so
did the excellent lunch--so what more _could_ you want?)--and, in
addition, being told by at least twenty people, the name of the winner
of the Cesarewitch!--they all named different horses, so that _one_ is
almost certain to be able to say next week, in that annoying tone of
voice people adopt after a successful prophecy--(this does _not_ apply
to Just Prophets, who are notoriously modest in success)--"_There_!
I _told_ you it was a certainty for _Whiteface_!--couldn't lose!--_of
course_ you backed it, after what I told you!"--which of course was
the very reason why you _hadn't_ backed it; however--as he may really
be able to tell you something on a future occasion, you put on a
ghastly smile, and say--"Oh, yes--I had a trifle on--but my _money_
was on _Blackfoot_ before you told me--but it got me out!"--and it
does "get you out" too, for nothing is more annoying than to be told
you "ought to have won a good stake!"
However, with regard to the great race next week, I am fortunately
able to set aside all "information received," because I have had _a
dream_!--not one of the ordinary lobster-salad kind of racing-dreams
one reads about--(naturally _I_ should not have an inferior kind,
having ordered in a stock of the "best selected," one to be taken
every night at bed-time)--in which the dreamer only sees _one_
horse--but a most complicated affair, from which it will be an easy
task for anyone skilled in dream-lore to extract the winner!
Well--I had been rather upset during the day, so to quiet my nerves,
on reaching home, I took, before going to bed, just a little _Golden
Drop_ of _Brandy_ as an _Insurance_ against restlessness--went
to sleep, and dreamt that my friends _Lady Villikins_ and _Madame
d'Albany_, with their maid _Helen Ware_, were attacked on their way
from _Illsley_ to _Weymouth_, by some _Dare Devil_ of a _Circassian_,
whose horse's hoofs rang in a _Metallic_ manner on the road! They were
rescued in the pass of _Ben Avon_ by the gallant _Burnaby_, who after
a long _Rigmarole_, squared their captor, _Roy Neil_, with a _Hanover
Jack_, and acted as their _Pilot_ to safe quarters at _Versailles_!
There!--that was my dream--and I think it points most conclusively
to the winner; and, anyone unable to pick the right one, need only
back them _all_, and there you are!--or at least you _may_ be. If
they don't care to do this, they can avail themselves of my verse
selection--which I did _not_ dream--and which, therefore, is _quite_
as reliable.
Yours, devotedly, LADY GAY.