rumours persisted, not only in Fifth Avenue but in Wall Street. Some people said he had speculated unfortunately in railways, others that he was being bled by one of the most insatiable members of her profession; and to every report of threatened insolvency Beaufort replied by a fresh extravagance: the building of a new row of orchid-houses, the purchase of a new string of racehorses, or the addition of a new Meissonnier or Cabanel to his picture-gallery.
He advanced toward the Marchioness and Newland with his usual half-sneering smile. “Hullo, Medora! Did the trotters do their business? Forty minutes, eh? … Well, that’s not so bad, considering your nerves had to be spared.” He shook hands with Archer, and then, turning back with them, placed himself on Mrs. Manson’s other side, and said, in a low voice, a few words which their companion did not catch.
The Marchioness replied by one of her queer foreign jerks, and a “ Que voulez-vous? ” which deepened Beaufort’s frown; but he produced a good semblance of a congratulatory smile as he glanced at Archer to say: “You know May’s going to carry off the first prize.”
“Ah, then it remains in the family,” Medora rippled; and at that moment they reached the tent and Mrs. Beaufort met them in a girlish cloud of mauve muslin and floating veils.
May Welland was just coming out of the tent. In her white dress, with a pale green ribbon about the waist and a wreath of ivy on her hat, she had the same Diana-like aloofness as when she had entered the Beaufort ballroom on the night of her engagement. In the interval not a thought seemed to have passed behind her eyes or a feeling through her heart; and though her husband knew that she had the capacity for both he marvelled afresh at the way in which experience dropped away from her.
She had her bow and arrow in her hand, and placing herself on the chalk-mark traced on the turf she lifted the bow to her shoulder and took aim.