Effie May, indeed, was the only person of Joan's acquaintance who seemed unaffected by the general excitement over the Derby. She heard with apparent indifference that the Major had been able to secure a box directly opposite the judges' stand, and she declined to rise early enough to accompany him and Joan to Sunday morning breakfast at the Jockey Club, where enthusiasts met regularly to inspect and pass critical judgment on the offerings of the past week.
"Lord, child!" she said once in answer to Joan's surprise at this indifference. "Horses ain't no treat to me. You see, they used to be my bread and butter."
It was one of her few references to a past that rather intrigued her step-daughter.
"Were both of your husbands turfmen?" asked the girl, curiously.
Effie May gave a brief nod; and Joan did not somehow feel encouraged to further questioning.
Derby Day dawned bright and sunny.
"A fast track, Dollykins," cried the Major in great glee. "We ought to break a record to-day!"
"That means the Long colt," said Joan learnedly. "The Camden entry's apt to prove a mud-hen."
She had in the past week made an exhaustive research into the race-horse question. Breeding and pedigree, record and past performance, rolled trippingly from her tongue. Joan was what the theatrical profession call "quick study."
The Darcys had been invited to go out to the tracks in the approved fashion, on top of a tallyho coach, tooled by Johnny Carmichael—who was not quite as sober as might have been wished. But his four-in-hand seemed aware of the fact, and took no ungenerous advantage of him.