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Updated: June 13, 2025
In the other car, too, silence reigned. Somerfield was the only one who struggled against the general air of depression. "After all," he remarked to Bransome, "I don't see what we're all so blue about. If Scotland Yard are right, and the Prince is really the guilty person they imagine him, I cannot see what sympathy he deserves.
It is a little late, but I think that it will be all right." The Prince glanced over Lady Grace's mare and turned aside to join Penelope and Somerfield. "I like the look of my horse, Sir Charles," he said. "I think that I shall beat you today." "We both start at five to one," Somerfield answered. "Shall we have a bet?" "With pleasure," the Prince agreed. "Will you name the amount?
People who travel in Zeppelins don't wear things like that. How do you do, Mr. Somerfield?" she added, smiling at the young man who had followed Nora into the room. "Don't they!" the latter retorted, with an air of superior knowledge. "Just look here!" She turned down the lining and showed it to them. "What do you make of that?" she asked triumphantly.
We shall be able to have a look at her before the race, at any rate." The opinions, after the Prince had left the table, were a little divided as to what was likely to happen. "For a man who has never even hunted and knows nothing whatever about the country," Somerfield declared, "to attempt to ride in a steeplechase of this sort is sheer folly.
"I didn't quite hear what you said before," she said severely. "Perhaps it is just as well. I rang up to say that you had better come round and dine with us tonight. You will probably find Penelope in a more reasonable frame of mind." "Awfully good of you," Somerfield declared heartily. "I'll come with pleasure." Dinner at Devenham House that evening was certainly a domestic meal.
Somerfield was already riding his mount for all he was worth, but the Prince as yet had not touched his whip. They drew closer and closer to the jump. Once more the silence came. Then there was a little cry, both were over. They were turning the corner coming into the straight. Somerfield was leaning forward now, using his whip freely, but it was clear that his big chestnut was beaten.
"Your country," he remarked, "prides itself upon being the country where truth prevails. If so, you should have become accustomed by now to hearing pleasant things about yourself. So you are going to marry Sir Charles Somerfield!" "Why do you say that over to yourself so doubtfully?" she asked. "You know who he is, do you not?
Penelope answered. "You are an Englishman, and you should know. Are you convinced, then, that your country today is at the height of her prosperity, safe and sound, bound to go on triumphant, prosperous, without the constant care of her men?" Somerfield looked up at her in growing amazement. "What on earth's got hold of you, Penelope?" he asked.
Vanderpole is of the same nationality, is he not, as Miss Morse? If you take my advice, you will be sure that they do not see the paper until after they get home this evening." "Has anything happened to Dicky?" Somerfield asked quickly. The Prince's face was impassive; he seemed not to have heard. Penelope had turned to wait for them.
Somerfield, who for a moment had been too angry to speak, had now recovered himself. "I think," he said stiffly, "that we had better drop the subject. I had no idea that Miss Morse felt so strongly about it or I should not have presumed, even here and amongst ourselves, to criticise a person who holds such a high place in her esteem.
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