People of the larger world there were, too. The narrow streets were congested with great touring-cars bearing unfamiliar license tags; New York, Michigan, California. Once, hearing crisp Eastern voices at her elbow, Joan turned just in time to see some people she had met at Longmeadow disappearing into a hotel. For a moment her heart stood still. She thought Eduard Desmond was among them. But it proved to be another man, and Joan mingled hastily in the crowd, relieved that they had not noticed her. In all this preparatory excitement Major Darcy was, as his wife put it, "busy as a bird dog." There were kinspeople from the Bluegrass to be welcomed, cousins from Paducah, Maysville, Fayette County. Joan, who did not altogether share her father's enthusiasm for the ties of kinship, rather admired her step-mother's skill in side-stepping the Major's abounding sense of hospitality. Effie May had taken the precaution to fill her house with paper-hangers. "What a shame! You'll have to take your cousins and things to the hotel, Dickie, or put 'em up at the Country Club, won't you? If I'd only thought!--" she murmured innocently; but catching Jean's suspicious eye upon her, she winked. Joan returned the wink. She remembered her mother's patience under the constant influx of Darcy relatives. She had also seen the unfortunate Misses Darcy almost turned out of doors by the daily increasing numbers of their kith and kin. The bookcase in their parlor had become, surprisingly, a bed; and Miss Euphemia, the plump, as the one best fitted by nature for this ordeal, was spending her nights on a packing-box sparsely mitigated by pillows.--Not that the Misses Darcy complained, however. They were long inured to the hospitalities of Derby week. Effie May, indeed, was the only person of Joan's acquaintance who seemed unaffected by the general excitement over the Derby. She heard with apparent indifference that the Major had been able to secure a box directly opposite the judges' stand, and she declined to rise early enough to accompany him and Joan to Sunday morning breakfast at the Jockey Club, where enthusiasts met regularly to inspect and pass critical judgment on the offerings of the past week. "Lord, child!" she said once in answer to Joan's surprise at this indifference. "Horses ain't no treat to me. You see, they used to be my bread and butter." It was one of her few references to a past that rather intrigued her step-daughter. "Were both of your husbands turfmen?" asked the girl, curiously. Effie May gave a brief nod; and Joan did not somehow feel encouraged to further questioning. Derby Day dawned bright and sunny. "A fast track, Dollykins," cried the Major in great glee. "We ought to break a record to-day!" "That means the Long colt," said Joan learnedly. "The Camden entry's apt to prove a mud-hen."