With some such feeling did Val Dartie, in the fortieth year of his age,
set out that same Thursday morning very early from the old manor-house
he had taken on the north side of the Sussex Downs. His destination was
Newmarket, and he had not been there since the autumn of 1899, when he
stole over from Oxford for the Cambridgeshire. He paused at the door to
give his wife a kiss, and put a flask of port into his pocket.

"Don't overtire your leg, Val, and don't bet too much."

With the pressure of her chest against his own, and her eyes looking
into his, Val felt both leg and pocket safe. He should be moderate;
Holly was always right--she had a natural aptitude. It did not seem so
remarkable to him, perhaps, as it might to others, that--half Dartie as
he was--he should have been perfectly faithful to his young first cousin
during the twenty years since he married her romantically out in the
Boer War; and faithful without any feeling of sacrifice or boredom--she
was so quick, so slyly always a little in front of his mood. Being first
cousins they had decided, rather needlessly, to have no children; and,
though a little sallower, she had kept her looks, her slimness, and the
colour of her dark hair. Val particularly admired the life of her own
she carried on, besides carrying on his, and riding better every year.
She kept up her music, she read an awful lot--novels, poetry, all sorts
of stuff. Out on their farm in Cape colony she had looked after all
the "nigger" babies and women in a miraculous manner. She was, in
fact, clever; yet made no fuss about it, and had no "side." Though not
remarkable for humility, Val had come to have the feeling that she was
his superior, and he did not grudge it--a great tribute. It might be
noted that he never looked at Holly without her knowing of it, but that