Sir Giles rode with the master. He seemed in better spirits than usual.
His customary scowl had lifted.

His wife rode nearer the end of the procession with Nap Errol next to
her. His brother was immediately behind them, a very decided frown on his
boyish face, a frown of which in some occult fashion Nap must have been
aware, for as they reached a stretch of turf and the crowd widened out,
he turned in the saddle.

"Get on ahead, Bertie! I can't stand you riding at my heels."

Bertie looked at him as if he had a retort ready, but he did not utter
it. With tightened lips he rode past and shot ahead.

Nap smiled a little. "That young puppy is the best of the Errol bunch,"
he said. "But he hasn't been licked enough. It's not my fault. It's my
brother's."

"He looks a nice boy," Anne said.

Nap's smile became supercilious. "He is a nice boy, Lady Carfax. But nice
boys don't always make nice men, you know. They turn into prigs
sometimes."

Anne diverted the subject with an instinctive feeling that it was one
upon which they might not agree.

"There is a considerable difference between you?" she asked.

"Eight years," said Nap. "I am thirty, Lucas five years older. Most