times
tasted a lobster in their parlour, and who seemed alike and equally
devoted to Mrs. Rodney and her sister, insisted upon taking them to
Epsom in his drag, and they themselves were to select the party to
accompany them. That was not difficult, for they were naturally all
friends of their munificent host with one exception. Imogene stipulated
that Endymion should be asked, and Mr. Rodney supported the suggestion.
"He is the son of the privy councillor the Right Hon. William Pitt
Ferrars, my earliest and my best friend, and in a certain sense is under
my care."

The drive to the Derby was not then shorn of its humours and glories. It
was the Carnival of England, with equipages as numerous and various,
and with banter not less quick and witty. It was a bright day--a day, no
doubt, of wild hopes and terrible fears, but yet, on the whole, of joy
and exultation. And no one was happier and prouder than pretty Mrs.
Rodney, exquisitely dressed and sitting on the box of a patrician
drag, beside its noble owner. On the seat behind them was Imogene, with
Endymion on one side, and on the other the individual "who might one
day be a peer." Mr. Rodney and some others, including Mr. Vigo, faced
a couple of grooms, who sat with folded arms and unmoved countenances,
fastidiously stolid amid all the fun, and grave even when they opened
the champagne.

The right horse won. Mr. Rodney and his friends pocketed a good stake,
and they demolished their luncheon of luxuries with frantic gaiety.

"It is almost as happy as our little suppers in Warwick Street,"
whispered their noble driver to his companion.

"Oh! much more than anything you can find there," simpered Mrs. Rodney.

"I declare to you, some of the happiest hours of my life have been
passed in Warwick Street," gravely murmured her friend.

"I wish I could believe that," said Mrs. Rodney.

As for Endymion, he enjoyed himself amazingly. The whole scene was new
to him--he had never been at a race before, and this was the most famous
of races. He did not know he had betted, but he found he too had won a
little money, Mr. Rodney having put him on something, though what that
meant he had not the remotest idea. Imogene, however, assured him it was
all right--Mr. Rodney constantly put her on something. He enjoyed
the luncheon too; the cold chicken, and the French pies, the wondrous
salads, and the iced champagne. It seemed that Imogene was always
taking care that his plate or his