He described the imaginary bees’ flight with the point of his whip, and seemed not to have heard the words addressed to him.
But all of a sudden he caught sight of the bright colours of the girl’s dress, and it took his attention at once.
“Hullo!” he cried, “what colour—what jock’s this? Why, it’s—what’s the matter with my eyes? It’s a pretty girl—it’s—why it’s Syd’s little flame.”
“Yes, Sir Hilton,” said the girl, smiling. “Yes, uncle.”
“Quite right, my dear. I’m Syd’s uncle. My mouth’s horribly dry, my dear, but don’t ask me to drink, because I’m going to ride for the cup, and it might attract the bees. But they’re gone now. I say, I don’t wonder at Syd. There, it’s nature, I suppose. Boys will be boys; and you’re the beautiful La Sylphide, so full of go. La Sylphide—yes, La Sylphide,” he repeated excitedly, and he gave a sudden lurch.
“Oh, mind, Sir Hilton!” cried the girl, catching at and supporting him. “He isn’t fit to ride. I’ll fetch father.”
She made an effort to get free, but Sir Hilton clung to her tightly, to rebalance himself in the chair, the name of the mare, the bright colour, and his attitude now combining to switch his mind off from the buzzing bees to the race, which now became dominant in his brain.
“Wo-ho! Holdup, little one,” he cried. “Want to break your knees?”
“Of course I don’t, Sir Hilton,” cried the girl, indignantly. “You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Those girths don’t seem quite tight enough, my beauty,” muttered Sir Hilton. “Never mind; I can keep my balance. Give you more room to breathe. Wo-ho!—How she pulls! Steady! Come, don’t show your temper with me.”