"Isn't it _good_! How flattering!" she said provokingly, though her thoughts flew to Chris, and how annoyed he would be. Her brother did not reply. His pride--or what did duty for it--was mortally hurt. To think that his sister--the sister of Frank Lawless, F.R.C.S., F.R.S., etc.--should be exploited in a public print like any opera-bouffe girl--it was too much! "They'll call you 'the _Trotting_ Girl!'" he squealed. "Most women waddle," said Gay flippantly, "and if my action is one-half as good as some Pacers I have seen, I am quite satisfied. But are you sure it was addressed to you, Frank?" and Gay looked at the wrapper to try to identify the handwriting, but found no clue there. "Some justly indignant friend of yours--or mine--has seen this rag"--he spoke bitterly, and without turning to face her--"and sent it on with a commentary that speaks volumes for their opinion of your taste. I hope you are pleased with your--notoriety." "I am," Gay replied emphatically--"delighted, and I hope it will give a leg-up to a real good sport, though I don't flatter myself that my connection with it will boom it much. What is there to be annoyed about?" she went on. "Surely there's nothing so very disgraceful in being snapshotted? I assure you I didn't pose for the photo." She thought it absurd that he should take the thing so seriously, and not in the least see its sporting side, and now looked at the paper again with a provoking laugh. "I think you ought to be proud of such a pretty sister," she said pertly, "instead of standing there grizzling, and trying to belittle my sporting tendencies. I'm awfully amused at it. Perhaps, in the course of time, I may aspire to the dignity of the Sporting and Dramatic, who knows?" The Professor did not reply, though his wrath was abating. Min's suggestion that his sister might be driven to seek companionship and recreation away from him had sunk into his mind, and though he could not bring himself to encourage, or even tolerate, her deplorable taste in sport, he was nevertheless wide-awake enough now to the possibilities of existence without her. "It can't be helped, I suppose, my dear," he said at last, "but it is to be regretted. Were it not for the degrading influences--" "Don't talk nonsense, Frank!" Gay interrupted. "You don't call Mr. Mackrell degraded, do you?" "Of course not, my dear. I find him singularly refined for an--er--a sporting-man." "Oh! when _will_ you learn the difference between a sportsman and a sporting-man, Heron?" Gay asked piteously. The Professor declined to prophesy. "By the way," she said, "Mr. Mackrell is coming to tea this afternoon, and has asked permission to bring Mr. Rensslaer with him. He's the great driver and owner of Trotters, you know--I daresay you've often seen his name in the papers--they say his stable contains the pick of the horses of the world--but, of course, you haven't," she added, laughing.