When they drove in through the simple gateway and round by the winding
drive, it was evident that a great afternoon was to be expected. The
blue-and-white club flag fluttered over a pavilion crammed from roof to
terrace. The teams were already out in their bright colours, curveting
about, each with a practice ball, on their stiff little ponies, moving
with that singular cramped action only seen on the polo ground.
It was one of those brilliant days in early May when only gardeners,
grumbling, talk or think of rain. A few fleecy white clouds seemed
painted. So motionless were they, on the sky, reproducing the Hurlingham
colours far above the ground. A gentle breeze coming up from the river
brought with it the odour of lilac and budding things.
The chairs were crowded with a well-dressed throng, the larger majority
of which seemed to be unaware that polo was the object of the afternoon.
The Mazerods and Dora had scarcely taken chairs when Arthur Agar
presented himself. His tailor had apparently told him that after a lapse
of six months it was permissible to assume habiliments of a slightly
resigned tenour.
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