"I don't mind Sir Thomas, he blusters and makes a noise about everything," said Richard Arden; "but it was quite palpable, when the horse showed, he wasn't fit to run. I don't suppose Sir Thomas will do it, but it certainly will be done. I know a dozen men who will sell their horses, if it isn't done. I don't see how any man can take payment of the odds on Dotheboys--I don't, I assure you--till the affair is cleared up: _gentlemen_, of course, I mean; the other people would like the money all the better if it came to them by a swindle. But it certainly can't rest where it is." No one disputing this, and none of the other gentlemen being authorities of any value upon turf matters, the subject dropped, and others came on, and Richard Arden was silent again. Lord Wynderbroke, who was to pass two or three days at Mortlake, and who had made up his mind that he was to leave that interesting place a _promesso sposo_, was restless, and longed to escape to the drawing-room. So the sitting over the wine was not very long. Richard Arden made an effort, in the drawing-room, to retrieve his character with Lady May and Miss Maubray, who had been rather puzzled by his hang-dog looks and flagging conversation. "There are times, Lady May," said he, placing himself on the sofa beside her, "when one loses all faith in the future--when everything goes wrong, and happiness becomes incredible. Then one's wisest course seems to be, to take off one's hat to the good people in this planet, and go off to another." "Only that I know you so well," said Lady May, "I should tell Reginald--I mean your father--what you say; and I think your uncle, there, is a magistrate for the county of Middlesex, and could commit you, couldn't he? for any such foolish speech. Did you observe to-day--you saw him, of course--how miserably ill poor Pindledykes is looking? I don't think, really, he'll be alive in six months." "Don't throw away your compassion, dear Lady May. Pindledykes has always looked dying as long as I can remember, and on his last legs; but those last legs carry some fellows a long way, and I'm very sure he'll outlive me." "And what pleasure can a person so very ill as he looks take in going to places like that?" "The pleasure of winning other people's money," laughed Arden sourly. "Pindledykes knows very well what he's about. He turns his time to very good account, and wastes very little of it, I assure you, in pitying other people's misfortunes." "I'm glad to see that you and Richard are on pleasanter terms," said David Arden to his brother, as he sipped his tea beside him. "Egad! we are _not_, though. I hate him worse than ever. Would you oblige me by putting a bit of wood on the fire? I told you how he has treated me. I wonder, David, how the devil you could suppose we were on pleasanter terms!"