who was a little touchy on that score. "Thirteen five at
the outside, and not so much as that after deer-stalking in Scotland.
He's clean thoroughbred, isn't he?"

The purchaser was biting, and Tom understood his business as if he had
been brought up to it.

"Clean," he answered, passing his leg over the horse's neck, and
sliding to the ground, thus leaving his saddle empty for the other.
"But he's thrown away on a heavy man. His place is carrying thirteen
stone over high Leicestershire. Nothing could touch him there amongst
the hills. Jumping's a vulgar accomplishment. Plenty of them can jump
if one dare ride them, but he's really an extraordinary fencer. Such a
mouth, too, and such a _gentleman_! Why he's the pleasantest hack in
London. You like a nice hack, my lord. Get up and feel him. It's like
riding a bird."

So Lord Bearwarden jumped on, and altered the stirrups, and crammed
his hat down, ere he rode the horse to and fro, trying him in all
his paces, and probably falling in love with him forthwith, for he
returned with a brightened eye and higher colour to Tom Ryfe on the
footway.

It was at this juncture both gentlemen started and took their hats off
to the lady who walked some fifty paces off, arm-in-arm with Simon
Perkins, the painter.

Their salute was not returned. The lady, indeed, to whom it was
addressed seemed to hurry on all the faster with her companion. It was
remarkable, and both remarked it, that neither made any observation on
this lack of courtesy, but finished their bargain without apparently
half so much interest in sale or purchase as they felt five minutes
ago.

"You'll dine with us, Tom, on the 11th?" said Bearwarden, when they
parted opposite Knightsbridge Barracks, but he was obviously thinking
of something else.

"On the 11th," repeated Tom--"delighted, my lord--at eight o'clock,
I suppose," and turned his horse's head soberly towards Piccadilly,
proceeding at a walk, as one who revolved certain reflections, not of
the most agreeable, in his mind. A dinner at the barracks was usually
rather an event with Mr. Ryfe, but on the present occasion he forgot
all about it before he had gone a hundred yards.

Lord Bearwarden, rejecting the temptation of luncheon in the
mess-room, ran up-stairs to his own quarters to think--of course he
smoked at the same time.

This nobleman was one of the many of his kind who, to their credit be
it said, are not spoiled by sailing down the stream wit