“If there is a disputed decision,” he said genially, “they shall race again.”
“Percy has won already,” said Mr. Clutterbuck. “He has been adjudged the winner.”
“Splendid! splendid! A promising little athlete. I congratulate you, Clutterbuck.”
“But he only ran five laps,” said Lady Circumference.
“Then clearly he has won the five furlongs race, a very exacting length.”
“But the other boys,” said Lady Circumference, almost beside herself with rage, “have run six lengths.”
“Then they,” said the Doctor imperturbably, “are first, second, third, fourth and fifth respectively in the Three Miles. Clearly there has been some confusion. Diana, I think we might now serve tea.”
Things were not easy, but there was fortunately a distraction, for as he spoke an enormous limousine of dove-grey and silver stole soundlessly on to the field.
“But what could be more opportune? Here is Mrs. Beste-Chetwynde.”
Three light skips brought him to the side of the car, but the footman was there before him. The door opened, and from the cushions within emerged a tall young man in a clinging dove-grey overcoat. After him, like the first breath of spring in the Champs-Élysées, came Mrs. Beste-Chetwynde—two lizard-skin feet, silk legs, chinchilla body, a tight little black hat, pinned with platinum and diamonds, and the high invariable voice that may be heard in any Ritz Hotel from New York to Budapest.
“I hope you don’t mind my bringing Chokey, Dr. Fagan?” she said. “He’s just crazy about sport.”
“I sure am that,” said Chokey.
“Dear Mrs. Beste-Chetwynde!” said Dr. Fagan; “dear, dear, Mrs. Beste-Chetwynde!” He pressed her glove, and for the moment was at a loss for words of welcome, for “Chokey,” though graceful of bearing and irreproachably dressed, was a Negro.
IX
The Sports—Continued
The refreshment tent looked very nice. The long table across the centre was covered with a white cloth. Bowls of flowers were ranged down it at regular intervals, and between them plates of sandwiches and cakes and jugs of lemonade and champagne-cup. Behind it against a background of palms stood the four Welsh housemaids in clean caps and aprons pouring out tea. Behind them again sat Mr. Prendergast, a glass of champagne-cup in his hand, his wig slightly awry. He rose unsteadily to his feet at the approach of the guests, made a little bow, and then sat down again rather suddenly.
“Will you take round the foie gras sandwiches, Mr. Pennyfeather?” said Dingy. “They are not for the boys or Captain Grimes.”
“One for little me!” said Flossie as he passed her.
Philbrick, evidently regarding himself as one of the guests, was engaged in a heated discussion on greyhound-racing with Sam Clutterbuck.
“What price the coon?” he asked as Paul gave him a sandwich.
“It does my heart good to see old Prendy enjoying himself,” said Grimes. “Pity he shot that kid, though.”
“There’s not much the matter with him to see the way he’s eating his tea. I say, this is rather a poor afternoon, isn’t it?”
“Circulate, old boy, circulate. Things aren’t going too smoothly.”
Nor indeed were they. The sudden ebullition of ill-feeling over the Three-mile race, though checked by the arrival of Mrs. Beste-Chetwynde, was by no means forgotten. There were two distinctly hostile camps in the tea-tent. On one side stood the Circumferences, Tangent, the Vicar, Colonel Sidebotham and the Hope-Brownes, on the other the seven Clutterbucks, Philbrick, Flossie and two or three parents who had been snubbed already that afternoon by Lady Circumference. No one spoke of the race, but outraged sportsmanship glinted perilously in every eye. Several parents, intent on their tea, crowded round Dingy and the table. Eminently aloof from all these stood Chokey and Mrs. Beste-Chetwynde. Clearly the social balance was delicately poised, and the issue depended upon them. With or without her nigger, Mrs. Beste-Chetwynde was a woman of vital importance.
“Why, Dr. Fagan,” she was saying, “it is too disappointing that we’ve missed the sports. We had just the slowest journey, stopping all the time to see the churches. You can’t move Chokey once he’s seen an old church. He’s just crazy about culture, aren’t you, darling?”
“I sure am that,” said Chokey.
“Are you interested in music?” said the Doctor tactfully.
“Well, just you hear that, Baby,” said Chokey; “am I interested in music? I should say I am.”
“He plays just too divinely,” said Mrs. Beste-Chetwynde.
“Has he heard my new records, would you say?”
“No, darling, I don’t expect he has.”
“Well, just you hear them, sir, and then you’ll know—am I interested in music.”
“Now, darling, don’t get discouraged. I’ll take you over and introduce you to Lady Circumference. It’s his inferiority-complex, the angel. He’s just crazy to meet the aristocracy, aren’t you, my sweet?”
“I sure am that,” said Chokey.
“I think it’s an insult bringing a nigger here,” said Mrs. Clutterbuck. “It’s an insult to our own women.”
“Niggers are all right,” said Philbrick. “Where I draw a line is a Chink, nasty inhuman things. I had a pal bumped off by a Chink once. Throat cut horrible, it was, from ear to ear.”
“Good gracious!” said the Clutterbuck governess; “was that in the Boxer rising?”
“No,” said Philbrick cheerfully. “Saturday night in the Edgware Road. Might have happened to any of us.”
“What did the gentleman say?” asked the children.
“Never you mind, my dears. Run and have some more of the green cake.”
They ran off obediently, but the little boy was later heard whispering to his sister as she knelt at prayers, “cut horrible from ear to ear,” so that until quite late in her life Miss Clutterbuck would feel a little faint when she saw a bus that was going to the Edgware Road.
“I’ve got a friend lives in Savannah,” said Sam, “and he’s told me a thing or two about niggers. Of course it’s hardly a thing to talk about before the ladies, but, to put it bluntly, they have uncontrollable passions. See what I mean?”
“What a terrible thing!” said Grimes.
“You can’t blame ’em, mind: it’s just their nature. Animal, you know.
