“Not the slightest. The nearest I have approached is to learn the name of the bankers through whom the annual donation is made. It is a good seed sown in a fruitful field, and some day the sower will reap harvest an hundredfold,” he declared, reverently. Of course Miss Isobel was properly impressed. She said nothing for a little. She was a bright, butterfly sort of creature, whose veil of innocence and apparent ingenuousness hid a nature which delighted in sacrificing dignity and reserve to her mischief-making propensities. She was of the kind ever ready to revert to the subject of round dances or divorce with a High Church dignitary. This idiosyncrasy asserted itself when she said to her listener, with her well-feigned air of irresponsibility: “Bishop, I should greatly like to have the pleasure of taking you this afternoon for a spin in my runabout, had I not an engagement to see the Derby run. Besides my promise to go, my favorite jockey is to ride in this race, and I cannot miss the chance of winning or losing kid gloves or bonbons on his horse. I suppose it is very sinful,” she sighed, resignedly, glancing with challenging eyes at the bishop. Emboldened, though disappointed, perhaps, by the fact that he did not appear shocked or surprised, she continued in a tone wherein earnestness and raillery were mingled: “Could you reconcile your conscience so far as to accompany me to such a sinful place as the race course, bishop?” For a time, so long that the silence grew painful, the bishop made no sign that he had heard. She noted a look on his face--was it one of offended dignity or simple disgust at her daring? She could not determine. Already she had framed an apology, when he said, without lifting his eyes: “Is it really so sinful?” continuing, quickly: “I do not doubt that it is, and, perhaps, it may strike you as being strange and unworthy of my calling, but for just once I should like to see the inside of a race course.” For some reason the statement struck a chord of sympathy in the girl’s heart. It was in the nature of a confession. “It is a beautiful sight, bishop,” she hastened to reply, thinking of nothing less inane as her mind struggled to find reason for his admission. “The horses, with their coats like satin, the jockeys in their bright colors, the excited throng of spectators and the velvety greensward. One jockey is a special favorite among the girls of the ‘horsy’ set,” she continued, now fairly advanced in her stride, figuratively speaking. “He’s a darling!”--ecstatically. “I surely believe half the women attend the races simply to see him ride, and all of them make wagers on his mounts.” She paused for a moment and glanced at the bishop. He did not appear offended. “When his horse wins and he returns to the judges’ stand they cheer him and wave their handkerchiefs, and some even throw kisses at him. He doesn’t notice it, though, for he never even smiles, but only looks up at the Blaisdell box.”