She was all wrapped up in expectation of it.
At times she glanced at her race-card, whilst a thoughtful frown puckered her pretty forehead, as though the name of the winning filly might leap out in letters of gold.
Dennis shook his head dolefully.

For the one thing sure and certain was that the fatal moment of inspiration would come to Miranda in time to allow her to reach the railings before the start.

Suddenly a name uttered by an apoplectic gentleman in a voice breaking with fine passion reached her ears, with the odds attached to it of nine to one.
Miranda's face cleared of all its troubles.
"Oh, why didn't I think of that before ?" she said in an extremity of self-reproach.

She walked straight to the apoplectic gentleman, followed by the unhappy pair of scientific punters.
"Callow Girl is nine to one, isn't it ?" The apoplectic gentleman smiled winningly.
"To you, missie." Miranda laughed.
"I'll have ten pounds on it," she said, and did not hear the gasp of her husband behind her.

She made a note of the bet in her little pocket-book.
"That's ninety pounds, anyway," she said, turning to her companions.
"They will just buy that simple little Callot frock with the embroidery." Yes, racing was as easy as that to Miranda Brown.