She had in the past week made an exhaustive research into the race-horse question. Breeding and pedigree, record and past performance, rolled trippingly from her tongue. Joan was what the theatrical profession call "quick study." The Darcys had been invited to go out to the tracks in the approved fashion, on top of a tallyho coach, tooled by Johnny Carmichael--who was not quite as sober as might have been wished. But his four-in-hand seemed aware of the fact, and took no ungenerous advantage of him. Effie May had awakened that morning with a bad headache, and proclaimed her intention of staying at home. "What! Not see the Derby run?" cried her husband incredulously. And when with a great shouting and tooting of horns the tallyho drew up under the porte-cochère, her determination weakened. "Oh, do come on, Mrs. Darcy! The air will do you good, and we shan't have half as much fun without you!" cried several voices, for she was very popular with young people. She hesitated. Joan decided the matter. "Put on a heavy veil to shield your eyes from the glare," she suggested; and Effie May yielded. It was not often that her step-daughter asked for her society. They became part of a procession that had been filing steadily past the Darcy house since sunrise. Every vehicle in town and the surrounding country, horse-power or motor-power, was on its way to the races. Street-cars passed in a solid line, with passengers hanging to the straps, bulging out of the windows, crowding on to the roofs. There was a steady throng of foot-passengers, all heading in the same direction, which hailed the tallyho as it passed with shouts of greeting and good luck. The tallyho responded with tooting horns and waving parasols. It was a friendly, intimate, highly democratic gathering such as may be found only south of Mason and Dixon's line; never pushing or jostling, but good-naturedly determined to enjoy itself. At the gate humanity was packed in a dense, immovable mass as far as the eye could see, and Joan, descending from her elevation, looked at the crowd in mild alarm. But the cry arose, "Make way for the ladies!" and instantly a lane appeared as if by magic, through which she and her companions made royal progress, laughing at the personalities which greeted them as they passed. "Nobody ever minds what happens on Derby Day!" explained Emily Carmichael. Once in the box, the men of the party deserted in a body for the betting ring, and Effie May promptly hailed a messenger. Her interest in racing seemed to have revived. "Let's see your tips, girls--anything good?" She looked over their various lists in a business-like way, approving this, discarding that, displaying a knowledge that put Joan's recent learned discussions to shame.