[Illustration]
But of course there are distractions. Now and again Society seeks
relief from its load of care by emigrating _en masse_ for the day to
a race-meeting at Sandown or Kempton. There the Hurlingham Girl is
as much at home as though she were native to the spot, sprung, as it
were, from the very turf itself. The interest she takes or pretends to
take in racing is something astounding. For in truth she knows nothing
about horses, their points, their pedigrees, or their performances.
Yet she chatters about them and their races, their jockeys, their
owners, the weight they carry, their tempers, and the state of the
betting market, with a glib assurance which is apt to put to shame
even those of her male companions who have devoted a lifetime to
the earnest study of these supreme matters. In imitation of these
gentlemen she will assure those who care to listen to her, that she
has had a real bad day, not having managed to get on to a single
winner, and that if it hadn't been for a fluke in backing _Tantivy_,
one, two, three, she would have been reduced to a twopence in the
pound condition of beggary. She will then forget her imaginary losses,
and will listen with amusement and interest while a smooth-faced lad
criticises with as much severity as he can command in the intervals of
his cigarettes the dress, appearance, and general character of a
lady whom she happens to dislike.
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