"It's beautiful," said Gay, to whom the colouring mattered nothing but the idea was everything, and reluctantly she tore herself away to look at an Indian Chief in all his war paint, and modelled in silver, on a table hard by. From the summit of his brow, and outlining his haughty back, his feathers made a regal silhouette that extended beyond his horse's tail, and the contrast of his grim impassivity, and icy air of detachment, with the horse's eagerness as it strained forward was marvellously rendered, making Gay declare that the horse was a dear, and that whoever did that, must love horses. The same remark applied to a model of Ascetics Silver, winner of the Grand National 1906, his ribs plainly showing, his upward, proudly-soaring eye, dilated nostrils, and the veins standing out on his face and body, drawing from her a cry of delight. Beneath was written, "Exhibited Paris Society Animal Painters," and the name of the sculptor made the girl jump. "_You_ did _that?_" she cried incredulously, the colour rushing to her face. "And here is my Little Mermaid," said Rensslaer, and Gay knew that what she saw before her was dear to him. "What a darling!" she exclaimed, and indeed it was a sweet little body, with childish, startled eyes, and hands impulsively put up to her cheeks. One could _see_ the grief and horror in the poor little thing's face--for of course she was watching her beautiful human prince being married, and the tears seemed to be just coming. It was a wonderful piece of work, and threw a new light on Rensslaer's character. Gay realised vividly how strong the love of beauty was in him, how great the power that enabled him to create it, how profoundly some human experience must have wrought in his mind to produce such results. She was silent, shy even, as he showed her the picture of his grandfather, who had written a wonderful book on religion that had estranged him from his family, and that the Professor was even at that moment handling reverently in the library. "And this is my great-great-great-grandfather," said Rensslaer as they turned from the inspired head, the tremendous intellectual force of the author, to an obvious Dutchman of quite another type, but just as remarkable. "He was a famous Dutch painter--our present name is an ugly corruption of his. We can't help it," said Rensslaer whimsically, "we must all follow art in one form or another--" And this was the man who, by the irony of circumstance, was by the multitude supposed to regard fast Trotting as the be-all and end-all of life! Gay blushed to think of his amusement when she at first regarded him in the same light--it was perhaps to correct this impression that he had invited her here, but no, he was too modest, too sincere for that. "I've never wanted to be a man till I knew you," said Gay a little enviously; "you turn perpetually from one thing to another, and there can be no dull moment in your existence."