“You told me just now that your father’s making up a book on Jim Crow.”
The girl used the handkerchief, stuffed it back in her boy-husband’s pocket, and nodded rather sulkily.
“What’s he doing that for?”
“Because the other—La Sylphide’s scratched.”
“That she isn’t. She’s going to run.”
“No. Josh Rowle’s down with D.T.”
“That don’t matter. She’s going to run and win. You’ve got to go back and dress for the race. You can’t go like that. There’d be too much chaff on the course, and I’m not going to have my wife show up like this on the stands.”
“No, dear. I’ve got a new frock—lovely.”
“Well, look sharp and run back, and I’ll come over in the dogcart with uncle, and come straight to your dad and give him a tip that will put him in a good temper.”
“You will, Syd?” cried the girl, joyfully. “And confess all?”