The bar filled up with the clink of ice and crystal and the rising cadence of convivial post-race chatter from the participants, still in their racing overalls—they had parked their motor-cars at the hotel entrance and come straight in to present themselves for roll-call and, not bothering to change, had settled in for a drink—standing out amidst the other formally dressed hotel guests and bar patrons. Charley and I were the odd ones out in our day clothes—to which Charley added her dash of chic—passable for a garden party, not quite fancy enough for evening nor part of the racing uniformed crowd, but none of this seemed to matter. If there was a dress code, it had been jettisoned for the evening. They built a glittering pyramid of champagne coupes and brought out magnums of Veuve Clicquot
