so wild. Now then, for the sake of the old
days and our old love. Hilt, for my sake. Do you want me to go down
upon my knees?"

"No, no, the other way on, if you like. But the race--impossible. I
can't--I can't. I don't know, though. She'd never hear of it. But the
newspaper. She never reads it, though; calls it a disgustingly low
journal. But, no--no, I couldn't--I couldn't. Hetty, old girl, pray,
pray don't tempt me."

"It is to save yourself from shame, and me, a weak, helpless woman, from
absolute ruin. Don't live to see me sold up, stock, lock, and barrel.
Why, Hilt, old man, I shall be as badly off as you. All my poor
gee-gees, including the mare, knocked down, and poor me marrying some
tyrant who will now and then write me a paltry cheque."

"Ha, yes!" cried Sir Hilton, drawing himself up as rigidly as if he had
been struck by a cataleptic seizure, while Lady Tilborough stared at him
in horror, and, unseen by either, Sydney, armed with mounted fly-rod and
creel, appeared at the window, stopped short, and looked in in
astonishment.

"Ha!" ejaculated the baronet, again, drawing a deep breath, as he
changed into the little, wiry, alert man, with a regular horsey look
coming over his face, and tightening lips. "All right, Hetty," he
cried. "I'm on."

"Hurrah!" cried Lady Tilborough, waving her whip about her head, and
then stroking it down softly on first one and then on the other side of
her old friend, before making believe to hold a pair of reins and work
them about, jockey fashion. "Sir Hilton up--he's giving her her head--
look at her--away she goes--a neck--half a length--a length--two
lengths! Sylphide wins! Sylphide wins--a bad second, and the field
nowhere."

"Ha!" breathed Sir Hilton, with his eyes flashing.

"What about your silk and cap?"

"All right."

"Get 'em; come on, then, Hilt. I'll gallop back to the paddock like the
wind. There'll be some scene-shifting there by now, and the bookies
working the oracle, for the news was flying when I came away that my
mare was to be scratched."

"Ha," cried Sir Hilton. "We'll scratch 'em, old girl. She must--she
shall win."

"Three cheers for the gentleman-rider!"

"But my wife--my election?"

"What! Win the race, and you'll win the seat, old man. Can't you see?"

"Only the saving of the money we have on."

"What! Not that the popular sporting rider who won the cup will win no
end of votes to-day?"

"Ah, to be sure.