“What do you think of our chauffeur now?” cried Cynthia radiantly, for the winning of those few sovereigns was a real joy to her, and the shadow of the welsher had no terrors, since she did not know what Medenham meant.
“He improves on acquaintance,” admitted Mrs. Devar, thawing a little under the influence of a successful tip.
He soon returned, and handed them six sovereigns apiece.
“My man paid up like a Briton,” he said cheerfully. “I have no reliable information as to the next race, so what do you ladies say if we lunch quietly before we attack the ring for the Derby?”
There was an awkward pause. The air of Epsom Downs is stimulating, especially after one has found the winner of the first race.
“We have not brought anything to eat,” admitted Cynthia ruefully. “We ordered some sandwiches before leaving the hotel, and we mean to stop for tea at some old-world hotel in Reigate which Mrs. Devar recommends.”
“Unfortunately I was not hungry at sandwich time,” sighed Mrs. Devar.
“If it comes to that, neither was I, whereas I have a most unromantic appetite now. But what can do, as the Babus say in India. I am rather inclined to doubt the quality of anything we can buy here.”
Medenham’s face lit up.