the best of spirits. Mrs. Owen appeared ready for this adventure with
her tall figure wrapped in a linen "duster." Her hat was a practical
affair of straw, unadorned save by a black ribbon. As she drew on her
gloves in the _porte-cochère_ the old coachman held the heads of two
horses that were hitched to a smart road wagon. When her gloves had been
adjusted, Mrs. Owen surveyed the horses critically.

"Lift Pete's forefoot--the off one, Joe," she commanded, stepping down
into the asphalt court. "Um,--that's just what I thought. That new
blacksmith knows his business. That shoe's on straight. That other man
never did know anything. All right, Sylvia."

Mrs. Owen explained as the trim sorrels stepped off smartly toward the
north that they were Estabrook stock and that she had raised them
herself on her Kentucky farm, which she declared Sylvia must visit some
day. It was very pleasant to be driving in this way under a high blue
sky, beside a woman whose ways and interests were so unusual. The
spirited team held Mrs. Owen's attention, but she never allowed the
conversation to flag. Several times as they crossed car lines it seemed
to Sylvia that they missed being struck only by perilously narrow
margins. When they reached the creek they paused on the bridge to allow
the sorrels to rest, and Mrs. Owen indicated with her whip the line of
the new boulevard and recounted the history of the region.

At the State Fair grounds Mrs. Owen drove in, explaining that she wanted
to see what they were doing to the track. Sylvia noticed that the
employees they passed grinned at Mrs. Owen as though she were a familiar
acquaintance, and the superintendent came up and discussed horses and
the track changes with Mrs. Owen in a strange vocabulary. He listened
respectfully to what Mrs. Owen said and was impressed, Sylvia thought,