LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square_.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

Nothing but a keen sense of duty, coupled with the possession of _the_
smartest thing in waterproof overcoats ever seen, would have tempted
me to go racing last week; but the claims of Hurst Park were not to
be denied, and my reward was, assisting at perhaps the most successful
meeting ever held there--(the backers "went down" to a man, and so
did the excellent lunch--so what more _could_ you want?)--and, in
addition, being told by at least twenty people, the name of the winner
of the Cesarewitch!--they all named different horses, so that _one_ is
almost certain to be able to say next week, in that annoying tone of
voice people adopt after a successful prophecy--(this does _not_ apply
to Just Prophets, who are notoriously modest in success)--"_There_!
I _told_ you it was a certainty for _Whiteface_!--couldn't lose!--_of
course_ you backed it, after what I told you!"--which of course was
the very reason why you _hadn't_ backed it; however--as he may really
be able to tell you something on a future occasion, you put on a
ghastly smile, and say--"Oh, yes--I had a trifle on--but my _money_
was on _Blackfoot_ before you told me--but it got me out!"--and it
does "get you out" too, for nothing is more annoying than to be told
you "ought to have won a good stake!"

However, with regard to the great race next week, I am fortunately
able to set aside all "information received," because I have had _a
dream_!--not one of the ordinary lobster-salad kind of racing-dreams