“What's the figure for Ellan Vannin?”
“Ten to one, market price, sir.”
“I'll take you in hundreds,” said Drake, and they struggled through the throng.
Going up the stairs Glory said: “But wasn't the Archdeacon at your office this morning? We saw him coming out of the square with Mr. Golightly.”
“Oh, did you? How hot it is to-day!”
“Isn't it? I feel as if I should like to play Ariel in gossamer—But wasn't it?”
“You needn't trouble about that, Glory. It's an old, story that religious intolerance likes to throw the responsibility of its acts on the civil government.”
“Then John Storm——”
“He is in no danger yet—none whatever.”
“Oh, how glorious!” They had reached the balcony, and Glory was pretending that the change in her voice and manner came of delight at the sudden view. She stood for a moment spellbound, and then leaned over the rail and looked through the dazzling haze that was rising from the vast crowd below. Not a foot of turf was to be seen for a mile around, save where at the jockeys' gate a space was kept clear by the police. It was a moving mass of humanity, and a low, indistinguishable murmur was coming up from it such as the sea makes on the headlands above.