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“Who gave you that?” said Beaulieu.

“No one,” said Patricia. “I dreamed it. I dreamed I saw the posters—Stewards’ Cup Result. I was wondering what had won when I woke to see Matilda with my letters and tea. The first letter I opened was from a girl called Ruby Grey.”

Simon grunted.

“I should have a bit on sans doute,” he said lightly. “But these ’ere indications are treacherous things. Look at poor Barley McFinn. Two nights before the St. Leger he dreamed he was giving bananas to a baboon; and as fast as he gave them the brute kept shaking its head and slinging them back. Well, Barley woke up and rushed off and put his binder on Monkey Nut.... Well, I don’t know where Monkey Nut finished, but a horse called Peelam won. Barley couldn’t see it for weeks.”

Patricia laughed gaily.

“You’re not a bit like your namesake, Simon,” she said. “He would have plunged. And yet ...”

“Yet what?”

“In a way you are. I mean ... Never mind. I’ll leave it there. What’s this they’re playing?”

Conversing evenly, they came to the flagged walk and the windows belching ragtime and blazing lights.