‘Ha! that’s all very well; but don’t try that with Black Prince or these ladies’ horses, or they’ll kick one another sky high.’
While this conversation was proceeding, Mr. Effingham and his sons had been ushered upstairs, where, at the extreme end of a long corridor, the Captain was provided with a reasonable bedroom, enjoying a view of the town and surrounding country. Wilfred and Guy had to content themselves with a smaller double-bedded apartment, the waiter apologising, as everything, to the attics, was crammed full, and visitors hourly, like crowds at the theatre, turned away from the doors. Slight inconveniences are not dwelt upon in the ‘brave days when we were twenty-one.’ So they cast their modest wardrobes on the beds, and tried to realise the situation.
This was a marked divergence from the circumstances of their mode of life for the past year. It appeared that every room on both sides of the corridor was tenanted by at least one person of an emotional and vociferous nature.
Boots were carried to the staircase and hurled violently down, accompanied by objurgations. Friendly, even confidential, conversations were carried on by inmates of contiguous apartments. Inquiries were made and answered as to who were going to dine at Rockley’s or Bower’s; and one gentleman, who had come in late, publicly tossed up as to which place he should go uninvited, deciding by that ancient test in favour of a certain Mr. Bower, apparently of expansive hospitality.
In addition to the dinner-chart, much information was afforded to such of the general public as had ears, as to the state and prospects of the horses interested in the coming events. Senator had a cough; and there were rumours about the favourite for the Leger. St. Maur and the Gambiers had come in, and brought a steeplechaser, which Alec was to ride, which would make Bob Clarke’s Cid go down points in the betting. Mrs. Mortimer had arrived and those pretty girls from Bunnerong. The fair one would be the belle of the ball. ‘No!’ (in three places) was shouted out, ‘Christabel Rockley was worth a dozen of her,’ and so on. Mr. Effingham began to consider what his position would be if he should have to listen to a discussion upon the merits of his daughters. This complication happily did not arise, the tide of mirthful talk flowing into other congenial channels.