"Truly, I hope it won't be Chris," the girl answered, drumming her fingers on the table, and looking thoughtful. "He's riding in the Gold Cup, you know—a horse he trained himself."
"Well," said the Professor with a deep sigh, "as it appears to be my duty, I'll come. I hope they won't talk horses to me, though," looking up anxiously.
"If they do, agree with everything they say," Gay instructed him, "because you don't know enough to contradict, do you?"
"I have my own ideas," he answered complacently, while Gay devoutly hoped he would give utterance to none of them, or she foresaw a rude awakening before him.
"We must leave here by eleven for Eaton Square," she said, "so toddle upstairs in half-an-hour, and change your clothes. I'll put everything out for you, including a pair of race-glasses, so you'll look the part, at any rate, even if you don't feel it."
When the Professor reappeared again, after an absence of an hour, he looked very nice and archaic, as Gay told him, though by no means happy.
"I am cold," he announced (and indeed his own skin was always his first consideration), looking down at his well-worn suit; "these are summer clothes, you know."
"It's a glorious day," Gay informed him; "but of course you'll want a top-coat. It'll be cold driving back, I expect."
When they arrived in Eaton Square, the Professor was hoisted on to the coach where he held on with both hands, and otherwise delighted Effie during the drive. His conversation was of a spasmodic character, interrupted by backward glances over his shoulder whenever a corner was turned, and he heaved an audible sigh of relief when the coach drew up in the enclosure.
Effie surveyed the scene with approval. Her sympathies were not particularly with the racing, indeed she only regarded it as a necessary evil connected with bringing a crowd of people together—and this was a very smart crowd certainly.