Amid the gay tumult of music and cheers, Corrie waited the half-minute interval, his eyes on the counting official, his hand on the lever, until the starter's hearty clap fell on his shoulder with the word:
"Go!"
With an explosive roar the Mercury shot across the line and rushed, gathering speed in long leaps, down the white course. Under the first arched bridge, out of sight it flashed, followed by an answering roar from the countless throats of those between whose dense ranks it sped.
Gerard moved back a few paces. He had become rather pale and grave; his gaze remained fixed on the distant arch through which the Mercury had vanished, nor did he turn to watch the sending away of the other nineteen racers.
The touch laid on his sleeve was feather-light.
"I could not stay away," pleaded Flavia, beside him. "May I watch Corrie with you, Allan?"
He wheeled eagerly, catching her retreating hand before it escaped from his arm.
"I know why Corrie calls you 'Other Fellow,'" he welcomed. "It is because you always know the right thing to do."
They looked at each other in the morning brightness, revelling in the fresh wonder of mutual possession.
"This is hurting you," she grieved. "I saw you before you did me, when the cars started—you were thinking that last year you yourself would have been there."