“Yes ... let me see ... she was out of Lady of the Lake, by ... by....”
“Yes, yes, that’s the one. Well, you know, he had thousands on her for the National, and I was standing near him, and when she came in ... third, I think it was....”
“Fourth I think, but....”
“Fourth, then. Well, old Tommy just shut up his glasses with a snap and said, ‘Aye, úhu, well, poor lassie, I thought she’d win somehow.’ Didn’t turn a hair, and he’d thousands on her!”
They were silent for a few seconds; then Sir Roger sighed and smiled: “Well, all that was a long time ago, Jimmy. Eheu fugaces, Posthume, Posthume.... Isn’t that how it goes, Guy? Funny how these old tags stick in one’s mind!” and he rubbed his chin and smiled complacently; and Teresa felt sure he would wake up in the night and chuckle with pride over the aptness of his Latin quotation.
Yes, but what was “old Tommy Cunningham” doing here? For he brought with him a rush of dreams and of old cold hopes, and a world as dead as the moon—dead men, dead horses, dead hounds.
Aye, úhu, fugax es, Cunningham, Cunningham.
“Don’t you adore albinos?” shrilled Elfrida Penn in her peacock scream, while that intensely conventional little man, “Crippin” Arbuthnot grew crimson to the top of his bald head, and Lady Cust’s face began to twitch—clearly, she was seized by a violent desire to giggle.
“Perhaps you would like to go up to your room, Lady Cust? You must be tired,” said the Doña.