They numbered just nineteen. Seventeen had been out when Allys and her squires stopped under the shade of a tree. Notwithstanding the shadow, she put up her white parasol, tilting it at just the angle to make it throw her head and shoulders in high relief.
Adair glanced at her, caught a hard breath, nipped it, then looked steadily down the course a minute.
Hilary smiled-a smile that got no further than the corners of his red lips-his eyes, indeed, gloomed the more for it-then turned upon Allys with: "Pick the winner for us, won't you? You are so delightful feminine you know nothing of horses, therefore ought to bring us luck. Say, now, what shall we back?"
"It depends," Allys said, twirling her parasol ever so lightly.
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