Sports from all over the country have gathered here for the great Derby--forty thousand or more were at the races--such a mixed crowd, men in checked suits, painted ladies, blacks, whites, all together. First we watched them making bets, then we strolled into the paddock to see the race-horses being led round and round in an enclosed ring, covered with blankets so that only their beautiful heads and bandaged legs could be seen. Each one had his pony or stable companion, as he is called. We hung over the railing and I did love it. Such a variety of names the horses had--By Golly, Up Shot, Bungo Buck. The great race we watched from a box in the grand stand. There was much excitement, cheering, clapping, and money changing hands. On came the horses round the track, faster and faster, till Speed Limit unexpectedly won the race, leaving some people very sad and others wildly hilarious. Checkers has won--not money on the races--but something else. And what? A girl! Guess if you can--Sybil! ! ! And she is the dearest girl in the world. Checkers is in kingdom come; he declares, “She’s as pretty as a pair of pink boots and as enticing as a glass of Kentucky moonshine. I can go to the races and lose; I can pick a horse with nothing but a mane and a tail; can’t pick a clown in a circus, but I can pick a blue-eyed doll all right!” How did he ever do it? Why, those two scamps pretended, just to amuse each other and everybody else, to have a mock engagement--Checkers called it a “trial hitch.” He says it worked like magic and they’re onto it for all time and that you must give him “the glad hand.” But oh, how unexpected for the rest of us--they’ve known each other for years. Seeing them so happy together makes me very lonely, A. D. I am glad to hear the new secretary has started over. The house where we are staying is quite beautiful--of gray stone built in the château style, surrounded by formal gardens and terraces with fountains and statues. Mrs. Courtney serves mint juleps every afternoon in the gallery where superb tapestries hang on the walls, and the enormous stone fireplace has logs as big as trees burning in it. The German Ambassador, an old friend of Boris’, by the way, is here, and also some racing swells. Boris and I took a walk in the garden today and he pretended to tell me the story of his life, how his father was a Russian, his mother a German countess,--how he had lived in St. Petersburg till his father died,--how (and then he became vague), he wandered from place to place, but perhaps you know all this. He is passionately fond of horses, “me much Cossack” he said, whereupon I proposed a ride.