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.”
Mrs. Devar laughed. Fitzroy evidently understood, as he had taken his seat and the engine was humming.
“Americanisms are most fascinating,” she vowed. “I wish you would use more of them, Cynthia. I love them.”
Cynthia was slightly ruffled, though if pressed for a reason she could hardly have given one.
“Slang is useful occasionally, but I am trying to cure myself of the habit,” she said tartly.
“A picturesque phrase is always pardonable. Oh, is this quite safe? – ”
The Mercury, finding an opening, had shot down the hill with a smooth celerity that alarmed the older woman. Cynthia leaned back composedly.
“Fitzroy means to reach the road before the police stop the traffic for the next race,” she said. Then, after a pause, she added: “I wish we could keep this car for the rest of our tour, yet I suppose I ought not to interfere in the arrangement father made with Simmonds.”
Mrs. Devar frowned. Her momentary tremor had fled, and she had every cause to regard with uneasiness the threatened substitution during the forthcoming ten days, of this quite impossible Fitzroy for that very chauffeur-like person, Simmonds. Her acquaintance with Peter Vanrenen and his daughter was sufficiently intimate to warn her that Cynthia’s least desire was granted by her indulgent parent; in fact, Cynthia would have been hopelessly spoilt were it not for a combination of those happy chances which seem to conspire at times in the creation of the American girl at her best. She was devoted to her father, her nature was bright and cheerful, and she had a heart that bubbled over with kindliness. Mrs. Devar chose the right line of attack. She resolved to appeal to the girl’s sympathies.
“I am afraid it would be a rather cruel thing to deprive Simmonds of his engagement,” she said softly. “He has bought a car, I understand, on the strength of the contract with Mr. Vanrenen – ”
“That doesn’t cut any ice – I mean there would be no ill effect for Simmonds,” explained Cynthia hurriedly. “Father will meet us in London at the end of our run, and Simmonds could come to us then.”
The steel-gray eyes narrowed. Their owner was compelled to decide quickly. As opposition was useless, she laughed, with the careless ease of one who was in no way concerned.
“Don’t you think,” she said, “that if your father sees this car Simmonds will be dispensed with somehow?”
Cynthia nodded. The argument was unanswerable.
They were crossing the course at a walking pace; at that point a sort of passage was kept clear by the police for the convenience of those occupants of the stands who wished to visit the paddock. The owner of Vendetta, having been congratulated by royalty, was taking some friends to admire the horse during the rubbing-down process, when his glance suddenly fell on Medenham. Though amazed, he was not rendered speechless.
“Well, I’m – ” he began.
But the Mercury possessed a singularly loud and clear motor-horn, and the voice of the Honorable Charles was drowned. Still, his gestures were eloquent. Quite obviously, he was saying to a man whose arm he caught:
“Did you ever in your life see anybody more like George than that chauffeur? Why, damme, it is Medenham!”
So Mrs. Devar lost a golden opportunity. She knew Fenton by sight, and her shrewd wits must have set her on the right track had she witnessed his bewilderment. Being a pretentious person, however, and not able to afford the up-keep of a motor, she was enjoying the surprise of two well-dressed women who recognized her. Then the car leaped forward again, and she scored a dearly won triumph.
At this crisis Medenham’s scrutiny of the road map provided by Simmonds for the tour was well repaid. He turned sharp to the right past the back of the stands, and was fortunate in finding enough clear road to render pursuit by his elderly cousin a vain thing, even if it were thought of. The Mercury had to cross the caravan zone carefully, but once Tattenham Corner was reached the way lay open to Reigate.
Through a land of gorse and heather they sped until they came to the famous hill. They ran down in a noiseless flight that caused Cynthia to experience the sensation of being borne on wings.
“I imagine that aeroplaning is something like this,” she confided to her companion.
“If it is, it must be enjoyable. I don’t suppose, at my time of life, I shall ever try to navigate the air in one of those frail contrivances pictured in the newspapers. But I was nearly tempted to go up in a balloon two years ago.”
Cynthia stole a glance at Mrs. Devar’s rotund figure, and laughed. She could not help it, though she flushed furiously at what she deemed an involuntary rudeness on her part.
“Oh, it sounds funny, I have no doubt,” said the other, placidly good-tempered, “but I really meant it at the moment. You have met Count Edouard Marigny, I fancy?”
“Yes, in Paris last month. In fact – ”
Cynthia hesitated. She had scarcely recovered from the excitement of the racing and was not choosing her words quite happily. Mrs. Devar, still sugary, ended the sentence.
“In fact, it was he who recommended me to Mr. Vanrenen as your chaperon. Yes, my dear, Monsieur Marigny and I are old friends. He and my son are inseparable when Captain Devar is in Paris. Well, as I was saying, the Count offered to take me up in his balloon, L’Etoile, and I was ready to go, but the weather became stormy and an ascent from the Velo was impossible, or highly dangerous, at any rate.”
Mrs. Devar cultivated the high-pitched voice that she regarded as the hall-mark of good breeding, and, in that silent rush downhill, Medenham could not avoid hearing each syllable. It was eminently pleasing to listen to Cynthia’s praise of his car, and he was wroth with the other woman for wrenching the girl’s thoughts away so promptly from a topic dear to his heart. Therein he erred, for the gods were being kind to him. Little recking how valuable was the information he had just been given, he slackened speed somewhat, and leaned back in the seat.
“We are nearing Reigate now,” he remarked with half-turned head. “The town begins on the other side of that tunnel. Which inn do you wish to stop at for tea?”
“It seems to me that I have barely ended lunch,” said Cynthia. “Shall we cut out your old-world Reigate inn, Mrs. Devar, and take tea at Crawley or Handcross?”
“By all means. How well you know the names of the towns and villages. Yet you have never before visited this part of England.”
“We Americans are nothing if not thorough,” answered the girl. “I would not be happy if I failed to look up our route on the map. More than that, I note the name of each river we cross and try to identify every range of hills. You must test me and count my mistakes.”
Mrs. Devar spread her hands in a gesture copied from her French acquaintances.
“My dear, I am the most ignorant person geographically. I remember how that delightful Count Edouard laughed when I asked him if the Loire joined the Seine above or below Paris. It seems that I was thinking of the Oise all the time. The Marchioness of Belfort told me of my error afterwards.”
Cynthia laughed merrily, but
