Again, silent as the rustle of a woman’s dress walking in a dark garden, Guy’s shining bonnet menaced the tail of our eye, and Guy himself, alone in front, yellow-haired, grim, fair herald of a fighting pageant in his brilliant Fair Isle sweater, and now the face of Venice, leaning forward to Guy’s shoulder, excited, exhorting. Venice, for Venice! She would pass the lady of the dancing hair, would Venice. But the stork cried hoarsely, flew on.
We wrestled. Silent as phantoms, we wrestled. One hundred and twenty horses, a winged Mercury and a stork wrestled for the dominion of nothing on the Reading road.
There was a corner, proud and saturnine from many fell triumphs. The stork screamed a taunt, flew on.
“Ho!” gasped Hugo, chattering, from behind. “Steady, girl! Shirley’s frightened....”
“Let him pass, Iris!” cried I. A little scared, a woman driving, you never know, might lose her head, boy’s head, curly head, white and tiger-tawny, but too white, too intent, too infernally reckless....
“Iris, Iris!”
“Can do seventy-five, if you like,” cried the lips of the dancing hair.
“Let him pass, Iris!”
“Pass? Am I mad! As soon let happiness pass! See, the stars are laughing....”
“Iris, Iris!”