The conversation pretty soon got on racing, for the Campdown course was to them their opera, drive, lecture, concert--everything, in short, except the church. Conyers was quite out of this conversation, and was used to being so. Bulstrode likewise found it a bore, and took refuge in gulping down glass after glass of sherry, port, madeira, champagne--any and every thing that came to hand. But he did not enjoy it, although old Tom’s cellar was not to be despised. He feared and revered a good woman, and the presence of the ladies took all the taste out of the wine and utterly disconcerted him. He had often said to Skelton: “Curse me, if I can drink comfortably in the presence of women. They are a standing rebuke to such old ruffians as I.” Skelton, however, entered into the spirit of the racing talk as if it were of the greatest possible moment. But it was a very delicate one in Blair’s presence. Too often had Skelton’s colours--black and yellow--come in ahead of Blair’s blue jackets and white caps. Skelton and Blair, though, each showed a gentlemanly obliviousness of all this. Skelton, however, chose to admire a certain colt of old Tom Shapleigh’s in a way that made Blair prick up his ears. “I was walking across your pasture the other day--trespassing, in fact, as I have half forgotten my own land--when I saw that black horse of yours--” “Alabaster!” cried Sylvia. “He is so black that I could not find a name black enough for him, so I went by the rule of contrary. He is to be my riding horse.” “Yes,” groaned old Tom ruefully, “Sylvia says she will have him. He isn’t a full thoroughbred, but he has some good blood in him, and I wanted to sell him to somebody, like our friend Blair here, who would find out how much speed there is in him, for he has it unquestionably. But he pleases my girl, and she proposes to keep me out of a snug sum of money in order that she may have a fine black horse to ride. Zounds! Skelton, I’m the most petticoat-ridden man in this county.” “No horse is too good for Miss Shapleigh,” answered Skelton, with gallantry; “but if she could be persuaded that another horse, with a coat as smooth and a tail as long as Alabaster’s, could carry her, I should like to see a match between him and that long-legged bay of mine--Jaybird, I believe, is his name.” Now Jaybird was the gem of Skelton’s stable, and had beaten everything against which she had been matched since her _début_, so that to say that Alabaster possibly had too much foot for her, at once put the black horse in the category of great horses. “If you can persuade Sylvia to let me sell him, I’d be delighted,” said old Tom, with his cheery laugh; “but I’ll not answer for your success with her. Women are mysterious creatures, my dear Skelton.” “Undoubtedly they are,” replied Skelton gravely. “Miss Shapleigh wants Alabaster because she wants Alabaster. Nothing could be more conclusive.”