the hour of one
Here was Sandown Park , which I had regarded as the goal of a respectable drive from town , with horses ; but we were taking it , so to speak , in our first stride . Esher was no sooner left behind than quaint old sleepy Cobham came to view ; between there and Ripley was but a gliding step over a road which slipped like velvet under our wheels . Then a fringe of trees netted across a blue , distant sea of billowing hills , and a few minutes later we were sailing under Guildford 's suspended clock . It was somewhere near the hour of one when Molly brought the car gently to a standstill by the roadside , and announced that she would not go a yard further without lunch . The chauffeur successfully took up the part of butler at a moment 's notice , busying himself with the baskets , spreading a picnic cloth under a shady tree , and putting a bottle of Graves to cool in a neighbouring brook . Meanwhile Molly was doing mysterious things with her chafing-dish and several little china jars . By the time Jack and I had with awkward alacrity bestowed plates , glasses , knives , and forks on the most hummocky portions of the cloth , white and rosy flakes of lobster _ à la _ Newburg were simmering appetisingly in a creamy froth .