It all passed in a few seconds, but it left him tingling with repressed rage. He had made a fool of himself in her eyes; had probably given away his secret to the whole party. After all, what matter? He could not much longer have kept it hidden. By the touch of hands and his daring words he had practically told her....
As he settled himself, her clear voice rang out: "Wake up, Roy! I'll race you to the backwater."
They raced to the backwater; and Tara won by half a length, amid cheers from the men.
"Well, you see, I had to let you," Roy explained, as she confronted him, flushed with triumph. "Seemed a shame to cut you out. Not as if you were a giddy suffragette!"
"Qui s'excuse—s'accuse!" she retorted. "Anyway—I'm the winner."
"Right you are. The way of girls was ever so. No matter what line you take, it's safe to be the wrong one."
"Hark at the Cynic!" jeered young Cuthbert. "Were you forty on the 9th, or was it forty-five?"
Roy grinned. "Good old Cuthers! Don't exhaust yourself trying to be funny! Fish out the drinks. We've earned them, haven't we—High Tower Princess?" The last, confidentially, for Tara's ear alone.
And Dyán, seeing the smile in her eyes, felt jealousy pierce him like a red-hot wire.
The supper, provided by Roy and Dyán, was no scratch wayside meal, but an ambrosial affair:—salmon mayonnaise, ready mixed; glazed joints of chicken; strawberries and cream; lordly chocolate boxes; sparkling moselle—and syphons for the abstemious.