"I must go back and sell the mare," said Fanny valiantly, "or else take
that ticket to Craffroe, Mr. Gunning!"

"Well, we'll come down and pick you up there after the first match, you
poor, miserable thing," said Mrs. Spicer, "and I hope you'll find that
beast of a horse dead when you get there! You look half dead yourself!"

How sick Fanny was of signing her name at that turnstile! The pen was
more atrocious every time. How tired her feet were! How sick she was of
the whole thing, and how incredibly big a fool she had been! She was
almost too tired to know what she was doing, and she had actually walked
past stall No. 548 without noticing it, when she heard Patsey's voice
calling her.

"Miss Fanny! Miss Fanny! I have her sold! The mare's sold, miss! See
here! I have the money in me pocket!"

The colour flooded Fanny Fitz's face. She stared at Patsey with eyes
that more than ever suggested the Connemara trout-stream with the sun
playing in it; so bright were they, so changing, and so wet. So at least
thought a man, much addicted to fishing, who was regarding the scene
from a little way off.

"He was a dealer, miss," went on Patsey; "a Dublin fella'. Sixty-three
sovereigns I asked him, and he offered me fifty-five, and a man that was
there said we should shplit the differ, and in the latther end he gave
me the sixty pounds. He wasn't very stiff at all. I'm thinking he wasn't
buying for himself."

The man who had noticed Fanny Fitz's eyes moved away unostentatiously.