The owner of this theatrical outfit was neither a movie actor nor a rich young idler, He was a psychologist, and his name was Harold Shea. Dark; a trifle taller, a little thinner than the average, he would have been handsome if his nose were shorter and his eyes farther apart.

The woman — girl — was a tawny blonde. She was the chief nurse at the Garaden Hospital. She possessed — but did not rejoice in — the name of Gertrude Mugler.

The other two men were psychologists like Shea and members of the same group. The oldest, the director of the others’ activities, was bushy-haired, and named Reed Chalmers. He had just been asking Shea what the devil he meant by coming to work in such conspicuous garb.

Shea said, defensively: «I’m going to ride a horse when I leave this afternoon. Honest.»

«Ever ridden a horse?» asked the remaining member of the group, a large, sleepy-looking young man named Walter Bayard.

«No,» replied Shea, «but it’s about time I learned.»

Walter Bayard snorkled. «What you ought to say is that you’re going to ride a horse so as to have an excuse for looking like something out of Esquire. First there was that phony English accent you put on for a while. Then you took up fencing. Then Last winter you smeared the place with patent Norwegian ski-grease, and went skiing just twice.»

«So what?» demanded Shea.

Gertrude Mugler spoke up: «Don’t let them kid you about your clothes, Harold.»

«Thanks, Gert.»

«Personally I think you look sweet in them.»

«Unh.» Shea’s expression was less grateful.

«But you’re foolish to go horseback riding. It’s a useless accomplishment anyway, with automobiles —»