The Salt Of The Earth by Fred M. White

Here was another familiar picture. Adela had seen it over and over again. Sometimes it was called Ascot, sometimes Goodwood, sometimes Epsom. There was only a change of scene--a hill there, a glimpse of the sea there, a group of trees yonder to vary the monotony. Here was the shouting crowd, the raucous yell of red-faced bookmakers, the long parallel lines of white railings, and a huge stand at the back of the paddock crammed with an excited, eager multitude, to whom the absolute sport of racing was the last consideration, and an ingrained love of betting the first. Yonder were the people drawn from the whole countryside, and here was the well-dressed crowd chattering and laughing, and making their bets on the chief race of the day. The Rokeby Park meeting was very similar to a score of others. It had precisely similar attributes, and produced similar excitement. This excitement was not shared by Adela Burton. Of course, she had made her bets as usual, but she was supremely indifferent whether she won or lost. She surveyed the crowd through her glasses. She looked over the paddock to the rails beyond which the coaches and carriages had drawn up in line. Most of her own party were off somewhere, and Denne stood behind her with that peculiar halo of aloofness which always surrounded him like an atmosphere. Adela turned suddenly and handed him the glasses.

"I wish you would look at those people next to General Manton's coach," she observed. "I have an absurd idea at that I can see Mr. Burton, and a still more absurd idea that the Baroness Lapanski is with him. It is ridiculous, but I should like to hear you assure at me that I am mistaken."