and if any gentleman sportsman present wishes to give
seven to two, I will take him to any amount."

"My book is made up," said Egremont; "and I stand or fall by Caravan."

"And I."

"And I."

"And I."

"Well, mark my words," said a fourth, rather solemnly, "Rat-trap wins."

"There is not a horse except Caravan," said Lord Milford, "fit for a
borough stake."

"You used to be all for Phosphorus, Egremont," said Lord Eugene de Vere.

"Yes; but fortunately I have got out of that scrape. I owe Phip Dormer a
good turn for that. I was the third man who knew he had gone lame."

"And what are the odds against him now."

"Oh! nominal; forty to one,--what you please."

"He won't run," said Mr Berners, "John Day told me he had refused to
ride him."

"I believe Cockie Graves might win something if Phosphorus came in
first," said Lord Milford, laughing.

"How close it is to-night!" said Egremont. "Waiter, give me some Seltzer
water; and open another window; open them all."

At this moment an influx of guests intimated that the assembly at Lady
St Julian's was broken up. Many at the table rose and yielded their
places, clustering round the chimney-piece, or forming in various
groups, and discussing the great question. Several of those who had
recently entered were votaries of Rat-trap, the favourite, and quite
prepared, from all the information that had reached them, to back
their opinions valiantly. The conversation had now become general and
animated, or rather there was a medley of voices in which little was
distinguished except the names of horses and the amount of odds. In
the midst of all this, waiters glided about handing incomprehensible
mixtures bearing aristocratic names; mystical combinations of French
wines and German waters, flavoured with slices of Portugal fruits, and
cooled with lumps of American ice, compositions which immortalized the
creative genius of some high patrician name.

"By Jove! that's a flash," exclaimed Lord Milford, as a blaze of
lightning seemed to suffuse the chamber, and the beaming lustres turned
white and ghastly in the glare.

The thunder rolled over the building. There was a dead silence. Was
it going to rain? Was it going to pour? Was the storm confined to the
metropolis? Would it reach Epsom? A deluge, and the course would be a
quagmire, and strength might baffle speed.

Another flash, another explosion, the hissing noise of rain. Lord
Milford moved aside, and jealous of