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entrants for the fourth race were being paraded, Mrs Harris listened to the conversation of two sporty-looking gentlemen standing just beside them.
    The first gentleman was engaged in digging into his ear with his little finger and studying his card at the same time. ‘Haute Couture, that’s the one.’
    The other gentleman, who was conducting similar operations on his nose, glanced sharply along the line of dogs and said: ‘Number six. What the devil does “Haut Coutourie” mean?’
    The first gentleman was knowledgeable. ‘She’s a French bitch,’ he said, consulting his card again, ‘owned by Marcel Duval. I dunno - ain’t Haute Couture got something to do with dressmaking, or something like that?’
    Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield felt cold chills run down their spines as they turned and looked at one another. There was no question, this was it. They stared at their cards, and sure enough there was the name of the dog, ‘Haute Couture’, and her French owner, and some of her record. A glance at the board showed them that her price was five to one.
    ‘Come along,’ cried Mrs Harris, making for the betting windows. She, like a tiny destroyer escorting the huge battleship of Mrs Butterfield, parted the crowds on either side of them, and arrived breathless at the queue.
    ‘What will you put on her, dearie - five quid?’ panted Mrs Butterfield.
    ‘Five quid,’ echoed Mrs Harris, ‘after an ’unch like that? Fifty!’
    At the mendon of this sum Mrs Butterfied looked as though she were going to faint. Pallor spread from chin to chin, until it covered all three. She quivered with emotion. ‘Fifty quid,’ she whispered, in case anyone should be listening to such folly. ‘Fifty quid!’
    ‘At five to one, that would be two hundred and fifty pounds,’ asserted Mrs Harris calmly.
    Mrs Butterfield’s normal pessimism assailed her again. ‘But what if she loses?’
    ‘It can’t,’ said Mrs Harris imperturbably. ‘ ’Ow can it?’
    By this time they were at the window. While Mrs Butter-field’s eyes threatened to pop out of the folds of her face, Mrs Harris opened her battered brown handbag, extracted a sheaf of money, and said: ‘Fifty quid on Howt Cowter, number six, to win.’
    Mechanically the ticket-seller repeated: ‘Haute Couture, number six, fifty pounds to win,’ and then, startled by the amount, bent down to look through the wire screen at the heavy better. His eyes looked into the glowing blue beads of Mrs Harris, and the apparition of the little char startled him into an exclamation of ‘Blimey’, which he quickly corrected into ‘Good luck, madam’, and pushed the ticket to her. Mrs Harris’s hand was not even trembling as she took it, but Mrs Butterfield stared at it as though it were a snake that might bite her. The two went off to the trackside to attend the fulfilment of the promised miracle.
    The tragedy that they then witnessed was brief and conclusive. ‘Haute Couture’ led the first time around, running easily and smoothly, like the thoroughbred lady she was, but at the last turn she was assailed suddenly by an uncontrollable itch. She ran out into the middle of the track, sat down and scratched it to her relief and satisfaction. When she had finished, so was the race - and Mrs Harris.
    It was not so much the loss of her hard-earned, hard-saved, so-valued fifty pounds that upset Mrs Harris and darkened her otherwise ebullient spirits in the following days, as the evidence that the policeman-magistrate God was uppermost, and that He was out of sorts with her. She had evidently misread his intentions, or perhaps it was only her own idea to take a plunge, and the Creator did not hold with this. He had sent swift and sure punishment in the form of a heavenly flea. Did it mean that He was not going to allow Mrs Harris to have her dress after all? Was she wishing for something so foolish and out of keeping with her position that He had chosen this method to indicate His