Ruth Callice, her straw sun-hat squashed down, removed the — hat and regarded him helplessly.
"Martin," she said, "is H.M. married?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever met his wife?" "No."
Ruth shut her eyes, puffed out her cheeks, and seemed lost in questions of fancy in her own mind.
"This stout gen'leman will give you five to one the field; ten to one Blue Boy! Don't crowd, now! Keep back so's the 'andles can be turned. Lady Brayle wants you all to 'ave a fling!"
"Ruth," Martin said, "I've got to hurry. Excuse me if I go ahead."
He had still fifty or sixty yards of the drive to cover. But the stalls and booths were fewer; he could almost run. A yellow balloon, lost from someone's hand, sailed past on a rising breeze. He could see that the oak trees, set back twenty feet from the drive, allowed room for the stalls inside. But the bigger exhibits; like the Mirror Maze, the merry-go-round, and something which called itself Mermaids' Paradise, raised their garish colours well back on the lawn behind the trees.
Well, the bandage was still on. And he reached the terrace.
Except to glance along the front, Martin hardly looked at Brayle Manor. Between two square grey-black towers, one at each end and of great age, had been built a Tudor or Jacobean frontage, with latticed windows, which seemed almost of yesterday by comparison.