“But I’m your niece, Sir Hilton,” persisted the girl, pressing up to him, as if asking for an avuncular kiss; “and I’m Mrs Sydney Smithers.”
“Yes,” said Sir Hilton, thoughtfully, as Syd took his young wife’s announcement as his cue to rise, and stood by her ready to receive a share of the coming blessing—or the other thing.
“Thank you, yes,” said Sir Hilton, dreamily. “Yes, I know you now. La Sylphide, the mare, won, and you are La Sylphide too, the pretty little girl at the big music-hall who called herself after my mare. Thank you, Miss Simpkins. I hope you won a pair of gloves.”
“Oh, dear!” cried the girl, pouting; “he don’t understand a bit. I suppose, Syd, we must wait till he comes round. But do you think it was our champagne that made him so ill? Oh, here’s dad. Daddy dear, Sir Hilton’s quite off his head still.”
“Yes, my gal, I know.”
“But do you think our champagne was bad enough to make him as queer as this?”
“What!” roared the trainer, with his face turning mottled. “No, cert’n’y not. Hold your tongue! Well, Sir Hilton, how are you now?”
“Never better, Sam! never better. A little thick in the head only. You need not trouble any more about me.”
“Oh, but I do, Sir Hilton.”
“Nonsense, man!” said the baronet, drawing himself up. “I’m quite right. I can’t understand how it was you persisted in coming, and bringing your charming daughter with you all this way, and at so late an hour. Why, it must be getting on for ten.”