“Blaisdell?” echoed the bishop. “Yes, ex-Secretary Blaisdell. Rumor says that Bettina Blaisdell wants to marry him, but, of course, the family couldn’t countenance such a thing--her becoming the wife of a jockey. It is reported he is of an excellent family, however, and rides under a _nom de course_.” “And this name--what is it?” inquired the bishop, scarcely above a whisper. Feverishly, almost, he appeared to wait for an answer. “Nowell--of course it is an assumed one----” She would have said more, but the words were checked on her lips, and she was staring at her companion in undisguised astonishment. His head was bowed over, and the hand, one finger of which held the episcopal ring, was trembling violently. In a moment he had regained composure. “Tell me of this race,” he said, in his accustomed well modulated voice. “Does this--jockey”--the word came with an effort--“ride for Mr. Blaisdell altogether? Is it the Blaisdell who was once in the Cabinet?” Eagerness was evinced in his voice, his expression, the attitude in which he leaned toward his fair informant. “Ex-Secretary Blaisdell--the one formerly in the senate, you know. He is more interested in the ponies now than in politics,” she said, dropping unconsciously into slang. “He was thinking of selling off all his race horses, when he discovered this jockey, who is said to get a princely salary. Mr. Blaisdell treats him almost as a son.” The bishop winced. “And this particular race--you call it the Derby, I believe?” he ventured. “It’s the greatest racing event of the year. The papers this morning were full of it. Secretary Blaisdell has set his heart on winning it with Nowell and Ixion, his favorite race horse. He is tipped by all the papers, and will be the favorite. That is, it is believed he has the best chance of winning, you know,” she explained. “Ixion and Nowell are a winning combination.” “Where is the race to take place?” persisted the bishop. “At the Ravenswood Park race course,” answered the girl, and then, impulsively: “Why, bishop, I might almost be tempted to believe that you are going! Why not let me take you?” she pleaded, coaxingly, with sweet, pursed-up lips and chin stuck out coquettishly toward him. She pictured to herself what a sensation she would create with a bishop on parade at the races. Well she knew that not a few would be there who would recognize them both, and she could imagine herself the cynosure of the eyes of hundreds of churchgoers transformed into racegoers on this Derby day. The idea was positively entrancing! With glowing eyes and cheeks flushed at the thought, Miss Danvers awaited the bishop’s reply. It was merely a shake of the head, without comment on her daring. Then the mother, having overheard the latter part of the conversation, turned to her daughter with gentle reproof: “I’m surprised at you, Isobel, having the audacity to extend such an invitation to a bishop. It’s shocking bad taste, really. I’m ashamed of you.”