"No, dear, not tired—but I've a bit of a headache."
"I'm so sorry. Oughtn't you to lie down?"
"No—it will go."
"Poor old sister!"
He put up his hand and laid it gently on her forehead. Then suddenly he hid his face.
"Oh, Janey, I'm so happy!"
CHAPTER X TONY BACKS AN OUTSIDER
November came in cloth of gold—a hazy sunshine put yellow everywhere, into the bleak rain-washed fields, the white, cold mirrors of ponds, the brown heart of woods. Lingfield races were on the first of the month—from noon onwards the race-trains clanked down from London, and disgorged their sordid contents. The public-houses were full, the little village, generally so pure and drowsy, woke up to its monthly contamination. It was the last meeting of the flat-racing season, and most of the "county" was present, crowding the paddock and the more expensive enclosures, eating its lunch to the accompaniment of a band too much engrossed in the betting for the interests of good music.