Spring came, and Jacob found the monotony of life relieved by a leisurely motor trip through the south of England, during which he stopped to play golf occasionally at various well-known courses. He returned to London in June, and on the second day of Ascot he came across Felixstowe, for the first time since their meeting in Monte Carlo. The young man’s greeting was breezy and devoid of any embarrassment. The little matter of the pony did not appear to trouble him.

“Jacob, old heart!” he exclaimed, leaning on his malacca cane and pushing his silk hat a little farther back on his head. “God bless you, my bloated capitalist! Three times have I rung up your office in vain. Where have you been to, these days?”

“Getting about as usual,” was the modest reply. “In the country, as a matter of fact, for the last few weeks.”

The young man considered his friend’s attire and nodded approvingly.

“Quite the Ascot touch,” he observed. “You can’t get the perfect sweep of the coat with your figure, but on the whole your man’s done you proud. Here alone?”

“Quite alone.”

“Tell you what, then, I’ll introduce you to my people. Best leg forward, old buck.”

Jacob followed his guide back through the tunnel, into the stand, up the stairs, and into a box on the second tier. The introduction was informal.

“Mother, want to introduce a pal—Mr. Jacob Pratt—Marchioness of Delchester—my sister, Lady Mary—dad. Now you know the family. What’s doing up here?”

The Marchioness, a handsome, thin-faced lady of advanced middle age, whose Ascot toilette was protected from the possible exigencies of the climate by an all-enclosing dust coat, held out her hand feebly and murmured a word of greeting. The Marquis, a tall, spare person, with aquiline nose and almost hawklike features, welcomed him with a shade of dubiousness. Jacob felt a little thrill, however, as he bowed over Lady Mary’s fingers. Her eyes were blue, and though her complexion was fairer and her manner more gracious, there was something in the curve of her lips which reminded him of Sybil.

“Do tell me, do you know anything for the next race, Mr. Pratt?” she asked. “I had such a rotten day yesterday.”

“I’m not a racing man,” Jacob replied, “but I was told that Gerrard’s Cross was a good thing.”

There was a general consultation of racing cards. The Marquis studied the starting board through his glasses.

“Gerrard’s Cross is a starter,” he announced, “ridden by Brown, colours brown and green. Belongs to Exminster, I see. Nine to one they seem to be offering in the ring.”

“I want a sovereign on,” Lady Mary decided. “Hurry, Jack!”

“Nothing doing, child of my heart,” the young man sighed. “Cleaned out my pocketbook last race.”

The young lady turned to her parents, who both seemed suddenly absorbed in the crowd below.

“Bother!” she exclaimed. “And the numbers are up already!”

“Will you allow me?” Jacob ventured, producing his pocketbook and handing a five-pound note to Felixstowe. “You’ll have to hurry.”

Lady Mary smiled at him sweetly and abandoned a furtive attempt to open her bag.

“Do you go to many race meetings, Mr. Pratt?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Very few,” he answered. “As a matter of fact, this is my first Ascot.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“Are you an American, then, or Colonial?”

“No, I am English, but it is only during the last year or so that I have had any time or money to spare for amusements of this sort.”

“How interesting!” she murmured a little vaguely. “Now tell me, have they started? We must watch.”

The race was a good one. In the last stretch, Gerrard’s Cross came away and won easily by three lengths. There was a scene of measured enthusiasm in the little box.

“Your horse has won, my dear,” the Marquis informed his daughter, lowering his glasses. “I congratulate you.”

The Marchioness indicated her approval by a more or less genial smile. Lady Mary’s blue eyes danced with pleasure.

“You dear person, Mr. Pratt!” she exclaimed. “This is my first winner, and I did want one so badly. I wonder what price Jack will get.”

The young man returned presently with a bundle of notes in his hand.

“Nines I got,” he announced. “Here’s your fiver, Jacob. Forty-five of the best for you, Mary. Lucky old dear!”

The girl grasped the notes joyfully.

“But surely these aren’t all mine? I said one pound. Some of this must belong to Mr. Pratt?”

Jacob shook his head, interrupting Felixstowe’s reluctant confirmation.

“Not at all,” he protested politely. “As a matter of fact, I have won a great deal of money myself on the race. I gave your brother a five-pound note because I could not find a smaller one. So much the better for you.”

The girl gave a little sigh of content. Jacob, turning around, was suddenly aware of a look of relief on the part of her distinguished father and mother. The latter smiled approvingly at Jacob, who was preparing to take his leave.

“You must come and call some afternoon, Mr. Pratt,” she said graciously. “We shall be glad to see you in Belgrave Square.”

“I shall be very pleased,” Jacob replied.

“And thank you,” Lady Mary whispered.

Jacob had made his farewells; he had almost reached the door. Felixstowe, leaning towards his mother, whispered behind his hand, “Millionaire! Rolling in it!”

The Marchioness was a woman of rare presence of mind. She addressed the departing guest quite softly, with no signs of flurry, but with a new note of graciousness. Jacob paused upon the threshold.

“Mr. Pratt,” she invited, “won’t you come and dine with us one evening? I know how men hate afternoon calls. Next Thursday night, at eight o’clock?”

“Do come,” Lady Mary begged, still grasping her notes.

“Very glad to see you, Mr. Pratt,” the Marquis added, with a little bow which was a model of deportment.

Felixstowe walked down the wooden stairs with his departing guest, who had murmured his grateful acceptance.

“You’ve hit it up all right with the old folks at home,” he confided. “Between you and me, that forty-five quid is about the only ready there is in the house. Bet you they’re snaffling it at the present moment. What a life it must be to have plenty of the dibs, Jacob! So long, old bean. See you Thursday. Hullo, what’s that?”

The two men looked back up the wooden staircase. Lady Mary was slowly descending towards them.

“I am to be taken for a walk,” she announced sedately, “on the lawn, if possible. And if either of you feel inclined to save the life of a young girl, perhaps you will give her something cool to drink.”

Jacob hesitated for a moment, but Lady Mary’s smile so obviously included him that he ventured to remain. They crossed the lawn and found an empty table within hearing of the band. Jacob ordered strawberries and cream, ice cream and champagne cup with reckless prodigality. The girl laughed softly.

“How deliciously greedy it all sounds,” she murmured, “and how much nicer this is than that stuffy box!—Jack!”

Felixstowe, however, was on his feet, waving to some one in the distance.

“There’s Nat Pooley!” he exclaimed. “Knows every winner to a cert. I’ve been looking for him all day. Look after my sister, Pratt, old thing.”

He dived into the crowd and disappeared. Lady Mary smiled at her companion.

“I am foist upon you, Mr. Pratt,” she said.

“I am very much the gainer,” he assured her. “I was feeling unusually lonely when I met your brother.”

“Well, I’ve had rather a stuffy time of it myself,” she acknowledged. “You see, I have on a new dress, and mother was afraid it was going to rain. And then Jack deserted us, and there was no one for me to come out with. How do you like my frock, Mr. Pratt?”

“I think you look nicer than any one I’ve seen here,” Jacob replied sincerely.

She laughed.

“I hope you mean it. You must eat some strawberries, please,” she begged. “Please do, or I shall feel so greedy. I had no idea one could get such good things here.”

Jacob did as he was told, drank some champagne cup, lit a cigarette, and began to realise that he was having a very pleasant time. Lady Mary chattered on gaily, telling Jacob who many of the people were and exchanging greetings with a number of friends. Presently, at her suggestion, they walked in the paddock, where she pointed out to him the most wonderful of the toilettes, and it was not until the bell rang for the last race that they climbed the steps once more to the box.

“I have enjoyed myself more,” she declared, “than any day this week. Thank you so much for looking after me, Mr. Pratt.”

“It has been a great pleasure,” Jacob assured her. “I hope I haven’t kept you too long, and that your people won’t be annoyed.”

The Marchioness, however, received them without any sign of displeasure and listened complacently to her daughter’s account of their doings.

“So nice of you, Mr. Pratt,” she said, “to have looked after Lady Mary. So many of our friends are not down to-day that I am sure she would have had quite a dull time but for you. We shall see you on Thursday.”

“With great pleasure,” Jacob answered truthfully.