It was a wonderful piece of work, and threw a new light on Rensslaer's character. Gay realised vividly how strong the love of beauty was in him, how great the power that enabled him to create it, how profoundly some human experience must have wrought in his mind to produce such results.
She was silent, shy even, as he showed her the picture of his grandfather, who had written a wonderful book on religion that had estranged him from his family, and that the Professor was even at that moment handling reverently in the library.
"And this is my great-great-great-grandfather," said Rensslaer as they turned from the inspired head, the tremendous intellectual force of the author, to an obvious Dutchman of quite another type, but just as remarkable.
"He was a famous Dutch painter—our present name is an ugly corruption of his. We can't help it," said Rensslaer whimsically, "we must all follow art in one form or another—" And this was the man who, by the irony of circumstance, was by the multitude supposed to regard fast Trotting as the be-all and end-all of life! Gay blushed to think of his amusement when she at first regarded him in the same light—it was perhaps to correct this impression that he had invited her here, but no, he was too modest, too sincere for that.
"I've never wanted to be a man till I knew you," said Gay a little enviously; "you turn perpetually from one thing to another, and there can be no dull moment in your existence."
Was there not? Across his brown eyes came a shadow that gave the lie to her words, and once again Gay wondered what the secret romance of his life was, this man whose ideals of beauty were of the highest, as his capacity for interpreting them, a conjunction that is very rare.
They were looking at an extraordinary collection of pistols of which Rensslaer merely pointed out the exquisite workmanship, and it had just occurred to her that she had heard somewhere that he was a fine shot, when a servant came to announce luncheon, and on looking for the Professor, they found him where they had left him. He had merely moved entranced from book to book that he had long coveted, and one rare edition had almost, as Frank confessed, slid into his coat-tail pocket, so that when Rensslaer asked him to accept it, his joy knew no bounds.
Yet, after all, Rensslaer's heart was in his horses, not books, as Gay discovered, when after luncheon, followed by the Italian greyhound that adored and never willingly left him, they walked towards the racing track, on the inside of which was turf smooth as a billiard-table, and surrounding it in the distance, a great belt of glorious trees.
Gay glanced round eagerly; there was no sign of a horse anywhere, no stables within sight or hearing, only a peaceful sylvan landscape. Perfect quiet prevailed as Rensslaer explained to her that his Trotters were practised, not on the track, but on grass, if they were to be shown where the ring is of grass, as otherwise a trotter would be apt to break.
"This grass is kept mown very short, and the turns are purposely not banked up," said Rensslaer, "as they never are at English horse shows, and the horses have to get used to it. I shoe my horses with spikes when showing, so that they shall not slip up, and have strong wheels made for my speed wagons, as the strain on unbanked-up turns, is apt to buckle a very light wheel, which is quite safe on turns that are banked-up.