Angelica tagged along disconsolately through the crowd till a conversation between two men who were leaning against the rail caught her ear. “I wonder who that little girl was,” said one. “The mare seemed to know her voice, but Reggie doesn’t call her Lady Washington.” “No—Hermione,” said the other. “He may have changed it, though,” he added. “He gives them all names beginning with H.” “You’ll have an easy time beating him in the five-foot-six jumps,” said the first man. “It’s a good mare, but he can’t ride her.” Angelica wondered who they were, but they turned around just then, and she dropped her eyes and hurried after Caroline. As they made their way through the crowd, a nudge from the maid took her thoughts from Lady Washington. She had been wondering how she would find the young man who had ridden her. She looked up and saw that a man was bowing to her. It was Mr. “Billy” Livingstone. Mr. Livingstone was nearly sixty, but he had certain qualities of permanent youth which made him “Billy” to three generations. “Hello, Angelica!” he exclaimed. “When did you turn up? How you’ve grown!” “I came up North with Jim,” she replied. “You should have let me know,” he said. “You know Jim never writes any one. This is the first time I’ve been here. I’m just back from the country. Where’s your box—that is, who are you with?” “I’m here with my maid,” said Angelica, with a somewhat conscious dignity. “Jim is with the horses.” Livingstone looked from the slender girl to the substantial Caroline, and the corners of his mouth twitched. “I prefer to be alone this way,” she explained. “It’s more independent.” Mr. Livingstone thought a moment. “Of course that’s so,” he said. “But I think I’ve got a better plan; let’s hunt up Mrs. Dicky Everett.” “Is she an old woman?” asked Angelica. “Not so terribly old,” said Mr. Livingstone. “I suppose you’d call her middle-aged.” “Thirty?” asked Angelica. “Near it, I’m afraid,” he answered. “Well, I don’t know,” said Angelica. “That’s pretty old. She won’t have anything to say to me.” “She knows something about a horse,” said Livingstone, “though, of course, she can’t ride the way you do. If you find her stupid, I’ll take you away; but I want you to come because she will be very nice to me for bringing you.” He turned to Caroline. “I’m a friend of Miss Stanton’s brother. Go to your seat, and I’ll bring Miss Stanton back to you.” Then he led the way up the stairs, and Angelica followed, wondering what sort of person Mrs. “Dicky” Everett might be. She cheered herself with the thought that she could not be any older or more depressing than Aunt Henrietta, and if she was fond of horses she might know who owned Lady Washington.