The great carnival completely restored Glory's spirits. She laughed and cried out constantly and lived from minute to minute like a child. Everybody recognised her and nearly everybody saluted her. Drake beamed with pride and delight. He took her about the course, answered her questions, punctuated her jests, and explained everything, leaving Lord Robert to entertain his guests. Who were “those dwellers in tents”? They were the Guards' Club, and the service was also represented by artillery men, king's hussars, and a line regiment from Aldershot. This was called “The Hill,” where jovial rascaldom, usually swarmed, looking out for stray overcoats and the lids of luncheon dishes left unprotected on carriages. Yes, the pickpocket, the card-sharper, the “lumberer,” the confidence man, the blarneying beggar, and the fakir of every description laid his snares on this holy spot. In fact, this is his Sanctuary and he peddles under the eye of the police. “Holy Land?” Ha, ha! “All the patriarchs out of the Bible here?” Oh, the vociferous gentlemen with patriarchal names in velveteen coats under the banners and canvas sign-boards—Moses, Aaron, and so forth? They were the “bookies,” otherwise bookmakers, generally Jews and sometimes Welshers.

“Here, come along, some of you sportsmen! I ain't made the price of my railway fare, s'elp me!” “It's a dead cert, gents.” “Can't afford to buy thick 'uns at four quid apiece!” “Five to one on the field!” “I lay on the field!”

A “thick un?” Oh, that was a sovereign, half a thick un half a sovereign, twenty-five pounds a “pony,” five hundred a “monkey,” flash notes were “stumers,” and a bookmaker who couldn't pay was “a Welsher.” That? That was “the great Brockton,” gentleman and tipster. “Amusement enough!” Yes, niggers, harpists, Christy Minstrels, strong men, acrobats, agile clowns and girls on stilts, and all the ragamuffins from “the Burrer,” bent on “making a bit.” African Jungle? A shooting gallery with model lions and bears. Fine Art Exhibition? A picture of the hanging of recent murderers. Boxing Ring? Yes, for women—they strip to the waist and fight like fiends. Then look at the lady auctioneer selling brass sovereigns a penny apiece.

“Buy one, gentlemen, and see what they're like, so as the 'bookies' can't pawse 'em on ye unawares!”

“Food enough!” Yes, at Margett's, Patton's, Hatton's, and “The Three Brooms,” as well as the barrows for stewed eels, hard-boiled eggs, trotters, coker-nuts, winkles, oysters, cockles, and all the luxuries of the New Cut. Why were they calling that dog “Cookshop”? Because he was pretty sure to go there in the end.

By this time they had ploughed over some quarter of a mile of the hillside, fighting their way among the carriages that stood six deep along the rails and through a seething mass of ruffianism, in a stifling atmosphere polluted by the smell of ale and the reeking breath of tipsy people.

“Whoo! I feel like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego rolled into one,” said Glory.

“Let us go into the Paddock,” said Drake, and they began to cross the race track.

“But wasn't that somebody preaching as we galloped down the hill?”

“Was it? I didn't notice,” and they struggled through.

It was fresh and cool under the trees, and Glory thought it cheap even at ten shillings a head to walk for ten minutes on green grass. Horses waiting for their race were being walked about in clothes with their names worked on the quarter sheets, and breeders, trainers, jockeys, and clerks of the course mingled with gentlemen in silk hats and ladies in smart costumes.

Drake's horse was a big bay colt, very thin, almost gaunt, and with long, high-stepping legs. The trainer was waiting for a last word with his owner. He was cool and confident. “Never better or fitter, Sir Francis, and one of the grandest three-year-olds that ever looked through a bridle. Improved wonderful since he got over his dental troubles, and does justice to the contents of his manger. Capital field, sir, but it's got to run up against summat smart to-day. Favourite, sir? Pooh! A coach horse! Not stripping well—light in the flank and tucked up. But this colt fills the eye as a first-class one should. Whatever beats him will win, sir, take my word for that.”

And the jockey, standing by in his black-and-white-jacket, wagged his head and said in a cheery whisper: “Have what ye like on 'im, Sir Francis. Great horse, sir! Got a Derby in 'im or I'm a Slowcome.”

Drake laughed at their predictions, and Glory patted the creature while it beat its white feet on the ground and the leather of its saddle squeaked. The club stand from there? looked like a sea of foaming laces, feathers, flowers, and sunshades. They turned to go to it, passing first by the judge's box, whereof Drake explained the use, then through the Jockey Club inclosure, which was full of peers, peeresses, judges, members of Parliament, and other turfites, and finally through the betting ring where some hundreds of betting men of the superior class proclaimed their calling in loud voices and loud clothes and the gold letters on their betting books. To one of these pencillers Drake said:

“What's the figure for Ellan Vannin?”

“Ten to one, market price, sir.”

“I'll take you in hundreds,” said Drake, and they struggled through the throng.

Going up the stairs Glory said: “But wasn't the Archdeacon at your office this morning? We saw him coming out of the square with Mr. Golightly.”

“Oh, did you? How hot it is to-day!”

“Isn't it? I feel as if I should like to play Ariel in gossamer—But wasn't it?”

“You needn't trouble about that, Glory. It's an old, story that religious intolerance likes to throw the responsibility of its acts on the civil government.”

“Then John Storm——”

“He is in no danger yet—none whatever.”

“Oh, how glorious!” They had reached the balcony, and Glory was pretending that the change in her voice and manner came of delight at the sudden view. She stood for a moment spellbound, and then leaned over the rail and looked through the dazzling haze that was rising from the vast crowd below. Not a foot of turf was to be seen for a mile around, save where at the jockeys' gate a space was kept clear by the police. It was a moving mass of humanity, and a low, indistinguishable murmur was coming up from it such as the sea makes on the headlands above.

The cloud had died off Glory's face and her eyes were sparkling. “What a wonderfully happy world it must be, after all!” she said.

Just then the standard was hoisted over the royal stand to indicate that the Prince had arrived. Immediately afterward there was a silent movement of hats on the lawns below the boxes, and then somebody down there began to sing God save the Queen. The people on the Grand Stand took up the chorus, then the people on the course joined in, then the people on “The Hill,” until finally the whole multitude sang the national hymn in a voice that was like the voice of an ocean.

Glory's eyes were now full of tears, she was struggling with a desire to cry aloud, and Drake, who was watching her smallest action, stood before her to screen her from the glances of gorgeously attired ladies who were giggling and looking through lorgnettes. The fine flower of the aristocracy was present in force, and the club stand was full of the great ladies who took an interest in sport and even kept studs of their own. Oriental potentates were among them in suits of blue and gold, and the French language was being spoken on all sides.

Glory attracted attention and Drake's face beamed with delight. An illustrious personage asked to be introduced to her, and said he had seen her first performance and predicted her extraordinary success. She did not flinch. There was a slight tremor, a scarcely perceptible twitching of the lip, and then she bore her honours as if she had been born to them. The Prince entertained a party to luncheon, and Drake and Glory were invited to join it. All the smart people were there, and they looked like a horticultural exhibition of cream colour and rose pink and gray. Glory kept watching the great ones of the earth, and she found them very amusing.

“Well, what do you think?” said Drake.

“I think most people at the Derby must have the wrong make-up on. That gentleman, now—he ought to be done up as a stable-boy. And that lady in mauve—she's a ballet girl really, only——”

“Hush, for Heaven's sake!” But Glory whispered, “Let's go round the corner and laugh.”

She sat between Drake and a ponderous gentleman with a great beard like a waterfall.

“What are the odds against the colt, Drake?”

Drake answered, and Glory recalled herself from her studies and said, “Oh, yes, what did you say it was?”

“A prohibitive price—for you.” said Drake.

“Nonsense! I'm going to do a flutter on my own, you know, and plunge against you.”

It was explained to her that only bookmakers bet against horses, but the gentleman with the beard volunteered to reverse positions, and take Glory's ten to one against Ellan Vannin.

“In what?”

“Oh—h'm—in thick 'uns, of course.”

“But what is the meaning of this running after strange gods?” said Drake.

“Never mind, sir! Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, you know——” and then the bell rang for the race of the day, and they scurried back to the Stand. The numbers were going up and a line of fifty policemen abreast were clearing the course. Some of the party had come over from the coach, and Lord Robert was jotting down in a notebook the particulars of betting commissions for his fair companions.

“And am I to be honoured with a commission from the Hurricane?” he asked.

“Yes; what's the price for Ellan Vannin?”

“Come down to five to one, pretty lady.”

“Get me one to five that he's going to lose.”

“But what in the world are you doing, Glory?” said Drake. His eyes were dancing with delight.

“Running a race with that old man in the box which can find a loser first.”

At that moment the horses were sent out for the preliminary canter and parade before the royal stand, and a tingling electrical atmosphere seemed to come from somewhere and set every tongue wagging. It seemed as if something unexpected was about to occur, and countless eyes went up to the place where Drake stood with Glory by his side. He was outwardly calm, but with a proud flush under his pallor; she was visibly excited, and could not stand on the same spot for many seconds together. By this time the noise made by the bookmakers in the inclosure below was like that of ten thousand sea fowl on a reef of rock, and Glory was trying to speak above the deafening clangour.

“Silver and gold have I none, but if I had—what's that?”

A white flag had fallen as signal for the start, there was a hollow roar from the starting post, and people were shouting, “They're off!” Then there was a sudden silence, a dead hush—below, above, around, everywhere, and all eyes, all glasses, all lorgnettes were turned in the direction of the runners.

The horses got well away and raced up the hill like cavalry charging in line; then at the mile post the favourite drew to the front, and the others went after him in an indistinguishable mass. But the descent seemed not to his liking; he twisted a good deal, and the jockey was seen sawing the reins and almost hanging over the horse's head. When the racers swung round Tattenham Corner and came up like mice in the distance, it was seen that another horse had taken advantage of an opening and was overhauling the favourite with a tremendous rush. His colours were white and black. It was Ellan Vannin. From that moment Drake's horse never relinquished his advantage, but came down the straight like a great bird with his wings ceasing to flap, passed the Stand amid great excitement, and won handsomely by a length.

Then in the roar of delight that went up from the crowd Glory, with her hand on Drake's shoulder, was seen to be crying, laughing, and cheering at the same moment.

“But you've lost,” said Drake.

“Oh, bother that!” she said, and when the jockey had slipped from his saddle, and Drake had taken his horse into the weighing-room and the “All right!” was shouted, she started the cheering again and said she meant to make a dead heat of it with Tennyson's brook.

“But why did you bet against me?” said Drake.

“You silly boy,” she answered with a crow of happiness and gaiety, “didn't the gipsy tell me I should lose money to-day? And how could I bet on your horse unless you lost the race?”

Drake laughed merrily at her delicious duplicity and could hardly resist an impulse to take her in his arms and kiss her. Meantime his friends were slapping him on the back and people were crushing up to offer him congratulations. He turned to take his horse into the Paddock, and Lord Robert took Glory down after him. The trainer and jockey were there, looking proud and happy, and Drake, with a pale and triumphant face, was walking the great creature about as if reluctant to part with it. It was breathing heavily, and sweat stood in drops on its throat, head, and ears.

“Oh, you beauty! How I should love to ride you!” said Glory.

“But dare you?” said Drake.

“Dare I! Only give me the chance.”

“I will, by——I will, or it won't be my fault.”

Somebody brought champagne and Glory had to drink a bumper to “the best horse of the century, bar none.” Then her glass was filled afresh and she had to drink to the owner, “the best fellow on earth, bar none,” and again she was compelled to drink “to the best bit of history ever made at Epsom, bar none.” With that she was excused while the men drank at Drake's proposal “to the loveliest, liveliest, leeriest little woman in the world, God bless her!” and she hid her face in her hands and said with a merry laugh:

“Tell me when it's over, boys, and I'll come again.”

After Drake had despatched telegrams and been bombarded by interviewers, he led the way back to the coach on the Hill, and the company prepared for their return. The sun had now gone, a thick veil of stagnant clouds had gathered over it, the sky looked sulky, and Glory's head tad begun to ache between the eyes. Rosa was to go home by train in order to reach her office early, and Glory half wished to accompany her. But an understudy was to play her part that night and she had no excuse. The coach wormed its way through the close pack of vehicles at the top of the Hill and began to follow the ebbing tide of humanity back to London.

“But what about my pair of gloves?”

“Oh, you're a hard man, reaping where you have not sowed and gathering——”

“There, then, we're quits,” said Drake, leaning over from the box seat and snatching a kiss of her. It was now clear that he had been drinking a good deal.