"Of course, my dear, if you think a man's—and a firm man's (the Professor looked more like a jelly just then)—intervention is desirable, I will speak to the cook, and if necessary (he squared his champagne shoulders, and Gay almost laughed as she fancied she heard something crack) I will show her the door."
He looked supplicatingly at Gay, and sidled towards the nearest exit himself.
"If you want me," he continued hurriedly, "I shall be in my laboratory; I am in the middle of a very delicate experiment," and with the last words, his coat-tails vanished round the corner. Gay smiled as she heard the laboratory door hastily closed, and the key turned.
"Old funk!" she said elegantly. "Afraid of his own shadow! I do believe he'd rather be run over than hold up his hand, for fear of hurting the motor-man's feelings!"
Then she laughed, and proceeded downstairs to tackle the cook herself.
The breakfast-room in Connaught Square was a pleasant apartment, and on the morning after the Trotting Meeting, when Frank had finished breakfast, and taken up his customary morning attitude before the fire, Gay leaned her elbows on the table, framed her pretty, fresh face in the hollow of her hands, and opened the ball.
"Frank, dear," she said, "I have something to tell you."
The Professor passed his hand lightly over his face, touching it in three places. He always did this when his attention was required, and many people thought he was crossing himself, and unjustly suspected him of ritualistic tendencies.
"Yes, my dear?" he inquired. "Nothing unpleasant, I hope?" Turning to the glass he looked apprehensively at his sister's reflection, and was discomfited when she caught him.
"Quite the reverse," she said. "It's this: I'm going to buy and race some Trotting horses!"