His narrow, thin-lipped, freckled face, with close-cropped sandy hair and clipped red moustache, was of a strange dead pallor.
He followed the figures of George and his companion with little fiery dark-brown eyes, in which devils seemed to dance.

Someone tapped him on the arm.
"Hallo, Bellew! had a good race ?" "Devil take you, no! Come and have a drink ?" Still without looking at each other, George and Mrs.Bellew walked towards the gate.
"I don't want to see any more," she said.

"I should like to get away at once." "We'll go after this race," said George.

"There's nothing running in the last." At the back of the Grand Stand, in the midst of all the hurrying crowd, he stopped.
"Helen ?" he said.
Mrs.Bellew raised her eyes and looked full into his.
Long and cross-country is the drive from Royston Railway Station to Worsted Skeynes.

To George Pendyce, driving the dog cart, with Helen Bellew beside him, it seemed but a minute--that strange minute when the heaven is opened and a vision shows between.