He too was changed. Formerly nothing had been a trouble, and nobody was a bore; he simply lived to please those he loved, and of these Gay was chiefest, but ill-health probably, and heartache certainly, were ruining his temper and his disposition for the time being. He thought Gay very hard on him, and she thought him hard on himself--as did Aunt Lavinia. Presently Chris sprang up, feeling that he could bear it no longer, and pleading that he was tired with his long day at Elsinore, he left early for Epsom, with more to think of than Gay guessed, and dispirited to a degree she had no idea of, or perhaps she would have bid him good-bye more kindly. As he thought of the once cheery little comrade who in former days had been wont to accompany him downstairs, the chilly aloofness of her struck Chris to the heart, though what of Gay, who was already in her own room, weeping passionately, when the slam of the hall-door came? "If his mother could see me," she thought, and almost looked round for invisible whips. In the train Chris recalled his quiet chat with Rensslaer before leaving Elsinore, the latter having thrown out a word of inquiry as to his future plans, and Chris had lightly sketched his autumn programme--a sufficiently full one. Rensslaer had listened with attention, then said: "There's no money to be made at racing as you practice it--the surroundings are not healthy, either morally or physically--there is too much excitement, too much bodily waste. It may wreck your manhood in the long run--you weigh a couple of stone less than you ought--and"--Rensslaer hesitated--"it's not fair to Miss Gay." "It's my very life, sir," cried Chris warmly. "In short," said Rensslaer, and smiled, "Bagehot knew what he was talking about, when he said that the 'natural impulse of the English people is to resist authority.' What you want is discipline." Chris uttered an exclamation, and his eyes flashed, for as he took no liberty with others, so he allowed none to be taken with him, but Rensslaer took no notice. "I am old enough to be your father," he said; "let me for once speak to you as one. The fault of your character is not so much want of purpose, as the need of one worthy of you--bend those talents which I know you to possess to some definite object, and embark without further delay on some worthy career. What you want is _work_, which is the salt of existence; the pleasure you take in horses should be for moments of relaxation--a refreshing pause to make your step all the quicker, your mind all the more braced for the serious business of life." "I shouldn't call the job of schooling and making horses exactly a sinecure," said Chris coldly. "I have work enough and to spare, and it is the work that I love." Rensslaer shook his head.