wing Gum."

Miranda swept round to her husband, radiant. "There, what did I tell
you? Chewing Gum. What were the odds, Harper?" She turned again to the
butler. "Oh, you do know, don't you?"

"Yes, madam, twelve to one. They say he rolled home."

Miranda Brown jumped in the air.

"Oh, I have won a hundred and twenty pounds."

Harold Jupp was sympathetic and consolatory.

"Of course it's a mistake, Miranda. I am awfully sorry! Chewing Gum ran
nowhere to Earthly Paradise in the Newberry Stakes this year, and
Earthly Paradise, all out to win, was beaten a month ago by seven
lengths at Warwick, by Rollicking Lady. And Rollicking Lady was in this
race too. So you see it's impossible. Chewing Gum's a Plater."

Miranda wrung her hands.

"But, Harold, he _did_ win; didn't he, Harper?"

"There's no doubt about it, madam," replied the butler with dignity. "I
'av verified the hinformation from other sources."

He left the two experts blinking. Dennis was the first to recover from
the blow.

"What on earth made you back him, Miranda?"

Miranda sailed to the side of Joan Whitworth.

"You are both of you so very unpleasant that I am seriously inclined not
to tell you. But I always back horses with the names of things to eat."

The two scientists were dumb. They stared open-mouthed. Somewhere, it
seemed, a religion tottered upon its foundations. Sacrilege itself could
hardly have gone further than Miranda Brown had gone.

"But--but," Harold Jupp stammered feebly, "you don't _eat_ chewing gum."

Miranda flattened him out with a question.

"What becomes of it, then?" and there was no answer. But Miranda was not
content with her triumph. She must needs carry the war unwisely into the
enemy's camp.

"After all, what in the world can have possessed you, Dennis, to back a
silly old mare like Barmaid?"

Dennis Brown saw his opportunity.

"I always back horses with the names of things to kiss," he declared.

Jupp laughed aloud; Sir Chichester chuckled; Miranda looked as haughty
as good-humour and a dainty personality enabled her to do.

"Vulgar, don't you think?" she asked of Joan. "But racing men _are_
vulgar. Oh, Joan! have you thought out your book to-day? Can you now
begin to write it? Will you write it in the window, with the South Downs
in front of your eyes? Oh, it'll be wonderful!"

"What ho!" cried Mr. Jupp. "Miranda has joined the highbrows."

Dennis Brown was too seriously occupied to waste his time upon