"Have you got 'em, Sir Hilton?" said Molly, going close up to his side.
"Round and round and round," said Sir Hilton, "and now zig-zag, zig-zag,
zigger, zagger, zag."
He described the imaginary bees' flight with the point of his whip, and
seemed not to have heard the words addressed to him.
But all of a sudden he caught sight of the bright colours of the girl's
dress, and it took his attention at once.
"Hullo!" he cried, "what colour--what jock's this? Why, it's--what's
the matter with my eyes? It's a pretty girl--it's--why it's Syd's
little flame."
"Yes, Sir Hilton," said the girl, smiling. "Yes, uncle."
"Quite right, my dear. I'm Syd's uncle. My mouth's horribly dry, my
dear, but don't ask me to drink, because I'm going to ride for the cup,
and _it_ might attract the bees. But they're gone now. I say, I don't
wonder at Syd. There, it's nature, I suppose. Boys will be boys; and
you're the beautiful La Sylphide, so full of go. La Sylphide--yes, La
Sylphide," he repeated excitedly, and he gave a sudden lurch.
"Oh, mind, Sir Hilton!" cried the girl, catching at and supporting him.
"He isn't fit to ride. I'll fetch father."
She made an effort to get free, but Sir Hilton clung to her tightly, to
rebalance himself in the chair, the name of the mare, the bright colour,
and his attitude now combining to switch his mind off from the buzzing
bees to the race, which now became dominant in his brain.
"Wo-ho! Holdup, little one," he cried. "Want to break your knees?"
"Of course I don't, Sir Hilton," cried the girl, indignantly. "You
shouldn't talk like that."
"Those girths don't seem quite tight enough, my beauty," muttered Sir
Hilton. "Never mind; I can keep my balance. Give you more room to
breathe. Wo-ho!--How she pulls! Steady! Come, don't show your temper
with me."
"Of course not, Sir Hilton. Oh! I do wish Syd would come."
She made an effort to free herself, but as she did so, Sir Hilton
snatched at the little figure gliding through his hands, but only caught
a couple of long ribbon streamers depending from the back of a flowing
robe.
"Oh, my frock--you'll tear it!" cried the girl, half in tears; and she
tried to drag herself away, but not vigorously, for fear of damaging the
diaphanous fabric to which the ribbons were attached.
"Father! Father!" cried the girl, faintly; but the trainer did not
stir, and the maids who looked on only glanced at one another as if
saying: "It isn't my place."
All passed very rapidly, as Sir Hilton, in imagination, rode away,
talking rapidly the while.
"Steady, my beauty--steady--that's good--bravo, starter--a capital
line--now then, flag down--no false start--that black beast Jim Crow--
yes, I'll make him jump to another tune. Now then, once more--good--
flag down--now--go--well over! Bravo, my darling!" he cried, making
play with the ribbons, just as Lady Lisle returned, consequent upon, as
the police say, "information received," and stopped short, literally
stunned, at the picture before her, while Molly caught sight of her, and
tried to get away, but in vain.
"Steady, darling, steady!" cried Sir Hilton, who felt the tugging at the
reins. "Don't get in a flurry. We shall win in a canter. Bravo, pet!
Easy--easy, beauty!--Don't tug like that--I don't want to hurt your
dear, tender mouth. That's better. We're going now like the--Bravo--
bravo--that's the way!"
"Oh! Sir Hilton," cried the girl, "don't, pray, don't! Look; can't you
see? Please, ma'am--my lady, it ain't my fault."
"That's right," shouted Sir Hilton, through his teeth. "Good--good--
splendid--now then--we're nearly level--that's it--level--half a length
ahead--now then--we're clear--bravo, little one! There, I've done with
you--splendid--cheer away! Oh, if my wife were only here to see!"
It was as if the excitement under which he had laboured were now all
discharged, and he dropped the imaginary reins, leaving Molly to rush
away up the stairs, just as Lady Lisle, speechless with rage and shame,
made a rush at her husband.
Matters in those moments were almost simultaneous.
Lady Lisle advanced, Syd appeared from the bar with a glass of
soda-water, and dashed back, regardless of his aunt, who fainted dead
away.
Sir Hilton sank forward with his chest over the chair-back, and his arms
hanging full length down, and a general aspect of trying to imitate a
gaily-dressed Punch in the front of the show.
Then Lady Tilborough rushed in wildly.
"Where is this man?" she cried, in a passion. "Hilt! Hilt!" Then as
she saw her gentleman-rider's state of utter collapse she uttered a
wild, despairing cry which brought the trainer to his office-door softly
rubbing his hands. "All, all is lost!" cried Lady Tilborough,
tragically.
"Here, stand aside!" shouted the doctor, dashing in with a medical glass
in one hand, and a bottle from the nearest chemist's in the other, the
cork giving forth a squeak as he drew it out with his teeth.
"Now then," he cried, "hold him up. Eh, what?" he added, as Lady
Tilborough caught him by the arm crying--
"Jack Granton, you're a doctor; do something to pick him up, or the
game's all over for us all."