Suddenly a bell rang.
"They're off!" exclaimed Miss Damer. "We can't cross the course now. Come on to this stand."
We raced up a flight of steps, and presently found ourselves on a long balcony in a position which commanded a view of the entire course.
"Your jockey," announced Miss Damer to me, "is pale blue with chocolate sleeves and cap. Mine is red, with white hoops. Can you see them anywhere?"
"I can see mine," I said. "He is having a chat with the starter at present, but I have no doubt he will tear himself away presently."
"But the others are halfway home!" cried Miss Damer in dismay.
"So I perceive."
"You poor man!"
"Never mind!" I replied quite cheerfully. There is something very comforting about being called a poor man by some people. "Where is your friend?"
"There, in that bunch of four. He is going well, is n't he? That's the favourite, Mustard Seed, lying back."