While Eben watches the sulky races
Clark scans the unfamiliar faces
in the crowd and fixes on one.  Framed
by dark tresses, at once innocent
and on the razor's edge of mischief,
its eyes meet his, radiant and untamed.
The charioteers arc by the bleachers,
deafening all.  Under the din a name
is called.  He hears it; she stands.  Her features,
like her smile, are elegant.  She turns.  "Lois,"
her escort says again, "I had lost you.
This mock Ascot's the last place I thought to
look.  Come along."  They go.  Her face burns so
in his heart it takes an effort not
to follow, as it did to refrain
from looking through her dress.  He remains
in control, though, repressing indecent
schemes as they occur.  The elder Kent
slaps his hat against his knee, hoots and cheers
for the winning jockey.  Clark disappears.
Hoping to leave it less despondent,
he makes his way to the circus tent.