"I don't care what Tom says, or how those horrid papers lampoon you," she cried, "it was awfully game of you, and I'd have loved to do it myself!"
"You're a trump!" cried Gay. "You see, the driver was tight, and I longed to do it, so when the opportunity came, I was like the teetotaler who joined the Blue Ribbon Army, because he thought it must be so delicious to be tempted—and to fall—and I fell!"
Effie laughed heartily, then exclaimed:
"Poor Carlton! But what a fool to be caught like that! Gay, if ever you want a thing done properly, get a knave to do it—"
"But I didn't want," cried Gay, "and as to that Gold Vase, it may be turned into a coal vase for all I care. He—he is going abroad at once—he has written to tell me so."
"Reculer pour mieux sauter," said Effie significantly. "Awfully good form of him, though, to clear out just now, instead of appearing like a tradesman with his bill made out, waiting for it to be paid, and a receipt given! And Chris out of the running, too! Poor Gay! You'll have to take the Trotting man after all."
"Only, even if I wished it, he won't take me," said Gay, and laughed at the epithet—Effie, like others, was still possessed of the entirely mistaken idea that Trotting was the be-all and end-all of Rensslaer's life, when in fact it was only one, and that by no means the greatest, of his hobbies.
"I don't believe in platonics, you know," said Effie drily, "and I intruded on quite an affecting little tableau just now. But now, Gay, what are you going to do? Tom says, of course, you'll drop it—the Trotting, I mean—
"I'd die sooner!" cried Gay, with flashing eyes. "Effie, if you've come here only to tell me that, then you are no real pal of mine. The least you can do is to stand by me, you and Tom—I can't attend the race Meetings alone, or with Lossie, who has been perfectly hateful to me."
"Ah!" said Effie sympathetically, "she would, you know!"