"Hum!" was all the Professor vouchsafed to this remark, for to compare his pursuit with that of Chris was nothing short of an insult.
When Chris arrived about eleven o'clock he found Gay ready and waiting for him, dressed in a smart, workman-like tweed coat and skirt, and with her glasses slung. A remarkably good-looking and happy pair they looked as they drove to meet the coach that Effie's husband, Captain Bulteel, a sporting man—and who among Gay's friends was not sporting, except Lossie Holden?—was driving down to Kempton Park races.
A place had been found for Chris, and when they arrived at the rendezvous in Eaton Square they were received with great warmth, Gay especially, and were soon on their way.
Effie and Gay talked nineteen to the dozen, and the drive was very pleasant. Though not the coaching season, Tom Bulteel was no believer in his team standing idle during the winter, so drove them to all the suburban meetings, or to Richmond, and other places, when there was no racing within reach. Everyone was in the best of spirits, and expressed surprise when the coach turned on to the course—the all-absorbing topic of horses having claimed the party's attention on the way, it was little wonder that the journey seemed no sooner to commence than it was over.
Naturally everyone had asked Chris about each and every race on the card.
"I never give tips," laughed Chris. "If they come off, people grumble at the price or something—as though I could help that—and if they don't, they look aggrieved, and more than half suspect one of putting them away. But I'll tell you this much—I'm having my maximum of a 'pony' on, and I expect to get it back, plus adequate interest, you know."
Arrived on the course, they made their way to the paddock to find Beeswing. He was in his box, and showed no signs of the railway journey. The lad opened the door as they approached, touching his cap to Gay, and regarding her with the unabashed admiration peculiar to his class.
"All right?" Chris inquired, walking up to the horse and patting him, an example Gay instantly followed. "Good. My bag's in the dressing-room, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir. I see Captain Conant's traps there too. 'E's come to try and ride that 'orse of Gunn's, I s'pose."
"Yes, he always rides for that stable," Chris replied, and smiled. He had a way of summing up people; "drops her h's and calls it h'arsthma," was his definition of a rich, vulgar old woman he and Gay detested, and "a pair of spurs and a grin," had as aptly hit off Captain Conant, who fancied he could ride, and courted public disaster on every possible occasion. He was also an ardent but at present infrequent worshipper at Lossie's shrine, as, greatly to his disgust, his regiment was now quartered in Ireland.