Leopold's wooden armchair, and the sallow little man would curl himself up, and, smoking his long clay, discuss the weights of the next big handicap. If Ginger contradicted him he would go to the press and extract from its obscurity a package of Bell's Life or a file of the Sportsman.

Mr. Leopold's press! For forty years no one had looked into that press. Mr. Leopold guarded it from every gaze, but it seemed to be a much-varied repository from which, if he chose, he could produce almost any trifle that might be required. It seemed to combine the usefulness of a hardware shop and a drug store.

The pantry had its etiquette and its discipline. Jockey boys were rarely admitted, unless with the intention of securing their services for the cleaning of boots or knives. William was very proud of his right of entry. For that half-hour in the pantry he would willingly surrender the pleasure of walking in the drove-way with Sarah. But when Mrs. Latch learnt that he was there her face darkened, and the noise she then made about the range with her saucepans was alarming. Mrs. Barfield shared her cook's horror of the pantry, and often spoke of Mr. Leopold as "that little man." Although outwardly the family butler, he had never ceased to be the Gaffer's private servant; he represented the old days of bachelorhood. Mrs. Barfield and Mrs. Latch both disliked him. Had it not been for his influence Mrs. Barfield felt sure her husband would never have returned to his vice. Had it not been for Mr. Leopold Mrs. Latch felt that her husband would never have taken to betting. Legends and mystery had formed around Mr. Leopold and his pantry, and in Esther's unsophisticated mind this little room, with its tobacco smoke and glasses on the table, became a symbol of all that was wicked and dangerous; and when she passed the door she closed her ears to the loud talk and instinctively lowered her eyes.

The simplest human sentiments were abiding principles in Esther—love of God, and love of God in the home. But above this Protestantism was human nature; and at this time Esther was, above all else, a young girl. Her twentieth year thrilled within her; she was no longer weary with work, and new, rich blood filled her veins. She sang at her work, gladdened by the sights and sounds of the yard; the young rooks cawing lustily in the evergreens, the gardener passing to and fro with plants in his hands, the white cats licking themselves in the sun or running to meet the young ladies who brought them plates of milk. Then the race-horses were always going to or coming from the downs. Sometimes they came in so covered with white mud that part of their toilette was accomplished in the yard; and from her kitchen window she could see the beautiful creature haltered to the hook fixed in the high wall, and the little boy in his shirtsleeves and hitched-up trousers, not a bit afraid, but shouting and quieting him into submission with the stick when he kicked and bit, tickled by the washing brush passing under the belly. Then the wrestling, sparring, ball-playing of the lads when their work was done, the pale, pathetic figure of the Demon watching them. He was about to start for Portslade and back, wrapped, as he would put it, in a red-hot scorcher of an overcoat.

Esther often longed for a romp with these boys; she was now prime favourite with them. Once they caught her in the hay yard, and fine sport it was in the warm hay throwing each other over. Sometimes her wayward temper would get the better of her, but her momentary rage vanished at the sound of laughter.