Chris returned from Elsinore decidedly quiet, not to say subdued in manner. Gay thought it was because in the enchanted world of horses he had entered there, the steeplechaser found his true level, was only one of many, not the be-all and end-all of existence; she also concluded that Rensslaer had kept the dare-devil young rider, who had given Gay a taste of his jumping capacity, out of sight, as indeed he had. Oddly enough, Chris seemed more struck with Rensslaer's personality and marvellous shooting, than anything else, and waxed eloquent when he reported to Gay at dinner that night, all he had seen and done during the day. "He's a fine chap," said Chris, "and a good sportsman--does some good with _his_ money. By Jove! you should just see him shoot on horseback! He's out of his element, an anachronism, in the garb of civilisation, but in his shirt and breeches, he's an athlete, and a model of skill and strength, while his mare is a marvel. I followed at a distance on a pony, and to see him drop a stag with a right and left, is a caution." He happened as he spoke to catch the eye of the Professor, who stiffened visibly. "Dangerous things, firearms," he said. "I never have anything to do with them myself, and as to shooting on horseback, I told you once before, at the Ffolliott's dance, I think--that while a good horseman in my youth, ahem! my riding days are now over." The Ffolliott's dance ... the hectic of excitement sank in Chris's hollow cheeks ... how long ago it seemed ... and a dear little girl faltering out that she wanted time ... crying her youth ... when all the while she had made up her mind not to marry him because he loved horses too well; yet how adorable she had been, how different from the little shrew who was looking angrily at him at that moment! Yet poor Gay thought she had some reason for complaint. Was his talk never to be of anything but sport in one form or another? Rensslaer the artist, appealed to her much more than Rensslaer the champion shot ... and then her thoughts went off with apparent, but not real, inconsequence to Carlton Mackrell, whose aimless, pleasant life had always annoyed her, but who had yet proved himself capable of a romantic action for which few would have given him credit, as few would themselves have committed it. Upstairs, after dinner, it was no better. There was the fresh, bright room with its heaps of flowers, just the same as ever; there was Gay, prettier than ever, but no longer the bright mortal whom one of her friends had christened "radium," so continually did she carry sunshine about with her. There was little enough warmth in the eyes that met Chris's, and how was he to know that it was only by a violent effort she curbed the longing to put out her hand, and touch the sunny head so near her own?