Except for a slight misunderstanding with a farm cart on the borders of Cambridgeshire, which Tony patched up with a charming apology and a sovereign, no untoward incident marred the remainder of the drive. Half-past one was just striking as the car entered the outskirts of Newmarket. Through the broad, grey main street, with its stray race-horses and its lounging throng of gaitered, clean-shaven men, Tony steered a sober and considerate course. The town was full of visitors, and almost every other man who passed either touched his cap or waved a cheery greeting.
Musette smiled.
"You seem to be the best-known person in London, Tony," she said.
"To the police," said Tony modestly, "I believe I am."
A swift run up the hill, a sharp turn to the right, and the Heath, fresh and green in the crisp October air, stretched out gloriously before them. Tony brought the car to a standstill just beyond the enclosure, and then, leaning over, affectionately patted the dashboard.
"Good girl!" he said.
Musette nodded.
"She has done splendidly. You must give her a nice helping of oil while I get lunch ready."
The latter operation did not take long. A well-meant offer of assistance from Reggie and Gwendoline was firmly, if politely, declined, and by the time Tony had attended to the car's requirements, a pleasing medley of champagne, lobster mayonnaise, cold tongue, and Madeira jelly was set out invitingly on the portable table inside the body.
"Here," said Reggie, raising his glass and leaning back luxuriously, "is the health of the gentleman who invented that charming phrase, 'the idle rich.'"