“But the other two,” said Imperia; “my word, they can run!”
Heads high, arms held close at the side, every muscle in play, yet in perfect control—Patricia and Honor sped down the course, side by side, light as thistle-down, swift as flying arrows, a lovely sight. So Atalanta herself ran, with
“... feet
That make the blown foam neither swift nor white
Though the wind winnow and whirl it.”
They rounded the turn. Patricia was a step in advance, but only a step; the little breeze that frolicked beside them blew their floating hair together as they ran, the pale gold mingling with the red. Desirée, just behind, gave a wild leap, and dropped on the grass at the side; Stephanie and Vivette were far behind. The excitement grew intense as the two girls came down the home stretch; neck and neck now, not a pace between them.
“Moriole! Moriole!” the girls’ voices broke out in a shrill clamor. “Moriole wins! No! It is Patricia! No, Moriole! Ah, ah! Vive la Moriole!”
What happened? Certainly Miss Folly had nothing to do with it, for her arms were folded under her neat mantle. At the very end, when almost touching the goal, Patricia seemed to stumble, as if over a loose stone. She recovered herself in an instant, but that instant had carried Honor past her to the finish, just one pace ahead.
A storm of applause broke out, but Honor did not seem to hear it. Panting, breathless, she stared at her rival, who returned her gaze with a smile which was not quite so gay as she meant it to be.