"Never started, lady," said a stout policeman, who, being drafted in from elsewhere, did not recognise Nigel as the young fellow on ticket-of-leave who came to report himself every month at East Grinstead. "Oh, dear!" cried Tony, "we've lost our money." "Never put your money on an outsider, lady," said the stout constable. Nigel turned to her with an odd, beseeching look in his eyes. "I'm sorry ... I'm dreadfully sorry. It's my fault--if it hadn't been for me you'd have backed the favourite." "Oh, it doesn't matter the very tiniest bit." "But I'm so sorry--I feel a beast." "Please don't. I've enjoyed myself awfully, and it's made the race ever so much more exciting, having some money on it." "All right!" had been sung out from the weighing-ground, and the crowd was either pressing round the bookies, or dispersing along the course. "We'd better go, I think," said Nigel, "you mustn't be late home." "It's been perfectly ripping," and Tony suddenly slipped her warm gloved hand into his. "It was so kind of you to take me." "But I made you back an outsider." "Oh, never mind about it--please don't." She gave his hand a little squeeze as she spoke, and suddenly, over him once again passed that thrill of great simplicity which he had experienced first at Brambletye. He became dumb--quite dumb and simple, with infinite rest in his heart. They turned to leave, jostling their way through the crowd towards the cinder-track. Soon the clamour and scramble were far behind, and they found the little footpath that ran through the fields near Goatsluck Farm. "Which way are we going home?" asked Tony. "We'll have tea before we go home. Will you come with me and have tea in a cottage?" "Oh, how ripping!..." Nigel looked round him. A cottage belonging to Goatsluck Farm was close at hand--one of those dwarfed, red cottages, where the windows gleam like eyes under the steep roof. "Let's ask there," he said, "perhaps we can have it in the garden." The labourer's wife was only too glad of a little incident and pence-earning. She laid a table for them by a clump of lilac bushes, now bare. One or two chrysanthemums were still in bloom, and sent their damp sweetness to the meal that Nigel and Tony had together. It was a very plain meal--only bread and butter and tea, but simplicity and bread and butter had now become vital things to Furlonger. Neither he nor Tony spoke much, but their silences were no less happy than the words that broke them. The sun had set, a hazy crimson smeared the west, and above it hung one or two dim stars. A little cold wind rustled suddenly in the bushes, and fluttered the table-cloth. Tony's face was pale in the twilight, and her eyes looked unnaturally large and dark. Then she and Nigel realised that they were both leaning forward over the table, as if they had something especially important to say to each other....