He handed her a bundle of notes.
“You will find a hundred and thirty pounds there,” he said, and she understood that his refusal to accept her money was final. She was intensely surprised that he had given her so much more than she expected, and the first unworthy thought was succeeded by a second—how dared this impudent chauffeur decline her bounty?
Cynthia pouted at him.
“Your Tomkinson is a fraud,” she said.
“Your Grimalkin was well named,” said he.
“That remark is very cutting, I suppose, Fitzroy.”
“Oh, no. I merely meant to convey that a cat is not a racehorse.”
“Poor fellow,” mused Cynthia, “he is vexed because he lost. I must make it up to him somehow, but he is such an extraordinary person, I hardly dare suggest such a thing.”
She began to adjust her veil and dust coat.
“If you are ready, Mrs. Devar,” she said, “I think we ought to hit the pike for Brighton.”