"Clubs?—You mean golf-sticks?" asked Joan, with misgivings. "Why, I haven't any. I don't play golf."
"Don't play golf?" cried Betty in genuine dismay. "What ever will you do with yourself here? And how on earth do you amuse yourself in Kentucky? Just ride?"
"Why, yes," said Joan feebly, "we—we ride."
Once, indeed, during a period of comparative affluence, the Major had possessed for a while a horse of the family type; and under his instruction Joan had occasionally mounted the complaisant beast and propelled it fearfully about back streets, feeling that something was due her Kentucky traditions. But suppose she were expected to mount, for instance, some such fire-eater as the Rabbit!
"I don't believe I've brought my riding-clothes," she murmured hastily.
"Goose! Why not? But I dare say Mother can fit you out with trousers," said Betty, glancing casually at her friend's slim length of limb. "Mine'd be too short. With trousers and a sweater you'll be all right."
Joan's eyes opened wide, but her mouth remained closed. After all, she was out for experience. If it included meeting a violent death while clad in trousers and a sweater, so be it.
"Uncle Neddy'll find you a decent horse somewhere," Betty was running on. "He's awfully keen about your coming, Jo. I'm afraid you're going to have him on your hands a lot, especially if you don't play golf."
Joan brightened. "Why? Doesn't he?"
"Lord, no! Too much of a duffer. Likes to do lazy things, like riding, and fooling around in a canoe, admiring nature. With widows and such!" She made a face.