The Professor moved uneasily in his chair.
"Why do you drag me into all these things?" he asked pathetically. "You know how I detest society, and you promised to leave me in peace if I went to the dance with you."
"Yes, I know," Gay agreed, "but Effie made quite a point of your coming to-day; you—you amuse her so, you know."
The Professor did not appear struck with this form of flattery, and half suspected that it was a plot between Gay and Mrs. Bulteel to make him appear to throw a mantle of respectability over his sister's racing divagations. Yet he had a sneaking desire to see for himself what there was in racing to make so many empty-headed people happy, and when he feebly urged that he had got nothing to wear, she knew that the game was won.
"Oh, yes, you have," she replied promptly, "that pepper and salt suit of yours—you know, the one you wear on your holidays. It's quite respectable—quite sporting-looking, in fact—and you can wear your 'Trilby' hat. (She exploded inwardly.) Altogether your rig-out's splendid, and I shouldn't wonder if people took you for a trainer!"
Frank Lawless looked offended, and made another attempt to escape.
"I shall be entirely out of it," he said. "There is much to do in there"—he nodded towards the distant laboratory. "Can't you make some excuse for me?"
"No, I can't," the girl answered firmly. "You're very seldom seen anywhere with me, you know, Frank, and people must wonder whether my brother is not a myth. Once you start, you're sure to enjoy yourself, and perhaps there'll be a job for you if one of the soldier-jockeys comes to the ground."
But even the prospect of a "case" did not console the Professor.
"I hope not," he said gravely; "you shouldn't joke about such things, Gay," and he shook his head reprovingly.