“I like Cynthia,” he said to himself, “though I shall be in a deuce of a mess if I meet her anywhere after this piece of masquerading. Not much chance of that, I expect, seeing that Dad and I go to Scotland early in July. But what a bore to tumble across Jimmy’s mater! I hope it is not a case of ‘like mother like son,’ because Jimmy is the limit.”
A strange roar, gathering force and volume each instant, rose from a hundred thousand throats. Soon the shout became insistent, and Cynthia Vanrenen yielded to its magnetism.
“Eyot wins!” she cried delightedly. “Yes, none of them can catch him now. Go on, jockey—don’t look round! Oh, if I were your master I’d give you such a talking to. Ah-h-h! We’ve won, Mrs. Devar—we’ve won! Just think of it!”
“How much, I wonder?” Mrs. Devar, though excited, had the calculating habit.
“Five pounds each,” said Medenham, who had approached unnoticed during the tumult.
Cynthia’s eyes sparkled.
“Five pounds! Why, I heard some betting person over there offering only three to one.”
It was a task beyond his powers to curb an unruly tongue in the presence of this emancipated schoolgirl. He met her ebullient mood halfway.
“I have evidently beaten the market—that is, if I get the money. Horrible thought! I may be welshed!”
He strode back rapidly to the bookmaker’s stand.