The glorious days of the "Old Times" coach seemed to be revived when, drawn by four beautiful greys, their manes braided with red and white ribbons, their heads decked with red and white camelias, a clean-shaven, eager-faced young man, with keen dark eyes, the correct blackness of whose attire was broken by his large red and white buttonhole, brought his coach up with a flourish, and followed by shouts and cheers and many cries of "Good luck," shortly sent it on its way. Smarter than ever in his tightly-fitting coat, showing the neatly-folded four-in-hand tie, and segment of scarlet gold-buttoned waistcoat, Godden sprang from the leaders' heads, and climbing to his place, blew a cheery blast upon his coach-horn. And then began the American's triumph, for he could not have driven a hundred yards before he found the reward of his enterprise in the way the people, whether on foot or awheel, recognised, and gave way to him as king of the road. Immediately the way was clear, and at a spanking trot, the coach went bowling along, every horse-drawn or motor-driven vehicle, effacing itself in honour of the fine team. The crowd's eyes sparkled with pleasure and welcome at the sight, policemen saluted, women fluttered their handkerchiefs, men cheered, the while Godden cheerfully chirruped a return of their welcome and good wishes, but of all the people in the streets, those to whom the sight of the splendid horses gave the most joy, were the cabbies, who took off their hats to a man, and waved them with ecstatic delight, shouting themselves hoarse, and nearly falling off their boxes in the process. It was a royal progress from start to finish--from the time the greys, that had not turned a hair, were changed, and four browns substituted, to the mixed team of two chestnut wheelers, black near leader, and grey on the off lead, that in turn gave way to one of perfectly matched black-browns. At every stage there was a big crowd, till at Brighton it ended in an extraordinary demonstration of enthusiasm, and through dense, cheering masses that only left a narrow lane for the coach's passage, the Metropole was reached. Blocked in the crowd, Gay inclined an eager ear to the cheers that ran down Piccadilly. She would have loved to go all the way ... her thoughts swerved sharply to racing, which was dangerous, wicked even--did not the poor horses often break their hearts, either dying on the course, or quietly after the race in their stables? And Trotting was apparently disgraceful (in England), but to drive a coach with such horses as she had just seen--why, that would be at once heavenly and _right_, thought Gay, as she listened to the echoes, and tried to imagine herself handling the ribbons of the Vanderbilt coach. She longed for someone congenial to talk with, and as if in answer to her wish, Rensslaer, ducking under the horses' heads, suddenly appeared at her elbow, and Gay's enthusiasm boiled over.