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Edmée, flushed with the fire of the grape, became Phryne incarnate; Aubrey’s Boeotian wit began to caper whimsically, and even Sutton’s merry mercantile eye took on a satyr’s gleam. It was this vinous urge which promoted the Sutton Stakes. No one is certain to this day who suggested the rag, but it has generally been attributed to ‘Fruity’ Fanshaugh. He has never denied it. ‘Fruity’ is a cross between Kipling’s Anglo-Indian and a Yogi. As a young officer in India he swallowed a lot of Yoga and got it inextricably mixed up with polo and pig-sticking. He’s credited with the possession of a Bombay head.”
    â€œWhat’s that? I don’t understand,” asked Vereker, with solemn interest.
    â€œI’m not quite clear myself, but I believe it means that the owner has suffered at one time or another from a touch of the Indian sun—a bit ‘gaga,’ to put it vulgarly. In any case, towards the end of the dance ‘Fruity’ seemed to take charge of the company of guests, and there was a hurried consultation with much laughter among the males. In a few minutes it was seen that something unusual was afoot, and it was suddenly announced before the final dance that the Sutton Stakes was to be run. The gees were to be seven male members of the company who had pooled substantial stakes, and the riders were to be seven of the ladies present. The horses were to run on all-fours with their jockeys astride their backs, and the course was once round the ballroom. It was an astounding proposition, but, as I’ve said, a Dionysian spirit was abroad and the Greeks had a very natural taste in amusements. I can never remember just who the horses were, but I know there was an eminent K.C., a brigadier, a very famous playwright, an M.P.—I won’t mention his name—and an R.A. among the field. Not a selling-plater ran. ‘Fruity’ Fanshaugh was weigher-in, starter, judge, winning-post, tote, Stewards of the Jockey Club, all rolled into one. It was a weight for youth handicap, and to Sutton, being the oldest horse, was allotted Edmée as his rider. She’s a sylph, I may explain, a wisp of provocative feminine gossamer. One of the rules insisted that no rider should touch the ground with her feet. Infringement of this rule instantly disqualified. Edmée, trained for the ballet, found this acrobatic feat to her taste and had, moreover, the courage of her anatomy not to mention underwear. In any case, she rode a daring and graceful race. Sutton went well up to bridle and won, and from that moment lost his heart to his pretty jockey. Edmée at once took the reins and began to ride him for all he was worth in the everyday race of having a good time.”
    â€œAnd have you heard what Angela thought of this performance?” asked Vereker, with grave interest.
    â€œHave I not? You could have iced the bubbly yards away from her. After the riders had mounted and Edmée had adjusted her rope of pearls—Ciro, of course—on Sutton as a bridle, Angela walked out of the room like a plate-glass Bellona. For a few seconds the air was susurrous, and then ‘Fruity’ shouted the word ‘Go.’ Angela went and sat out on the balcony in frozen meditation, gazing at the sweet moonlit shimmer of the Mediterranean while the race was in progress. Her old friend, Houseley—‘Hell-for-leather’ Houseley—accompanied her and gallantly held her hand in the courtliest manner. ‘Masochistic vulgarity’ was what Angela thought of the race, and remarked to Edmée afterwards that she was certain that ‘Nebuchadnezzar at his worst could never have looked such a damned fool as Sutton did on all-fours.’”
    â€œI’ve a soft spot for Angela already,” remarked Vereker when Ricardo had finished his story. “Among the goddesses there’s something devilishly attractive about Diana.”
    â€œI