Lewis, though, always dined with Skelton and enjoyed it. Skelton was at his best at dinner, and would sometimes exert himself to please the boy, whose tastes were singularly like his own. Lewis liked the exquisitely appointed table, the sight of the flowers upon it, the subtile air of luxury pervading the whole. He liked to lie back in his chair, making his one small glass of sherry last as long as he could, looking out upon the black clumps of the shrubbery that loomed large in the purple twilight, listening to the soft, melodious ripple of the broad river, and to Skelton’s musical voice as he talked. It always vexed him when Miles Lightfoot was of the party, who was, however, under a good deal of restraint in Skelton’s presence. On this particular evening, though, Bulstrode was dining with Skelton and Lewis. The room was dim, for all the wax candles in the world could not light it brilliantly, and it was odorous with the scent of the blossoms of a dogwood tree that bloomed outside, and even thrust their bold, pretty faces almost through the window. But Bulstrode was undeniably cross, and uncomfortably attentive to the decanters. “And how did Jaybird do to-day, Lewis?” asked Skelton; but before Lewis could answer, Bulstrode burst out: “Jaybird go to perdition! Every time I think of him I remember that if the horse wins that race, Blair will be a ruined man. That is, he is more than half ruined already, but that will finish him.” “I shall be sorry, but I can’t see how anybody but Blair can be held responsible,” answered Skelton calmly. “If a man who can’t afford it _will_ follow horse racing, and if he _will_ put up a scrub against a thoroughbred, why, there’s no stopping him; that man has an inbred folly that must bring him to ruin some time or other. I don’t think this race, or any race especially, will effect the result. Blair has a passion for gambling on the turf, and that will ruin any man.” Lewis listened to this with a troubled face. Skelton’s eyes saw it, and he felt angry with Bulstrode for putting such things into the boy’s head. And besides, Lewis was only fifteen, and suppose his feelings should be worked upon to the extent that he should be guilty of the enormity of “pulling” the race? Skelton hastened to change the conversation. The dinner was shorter than usual that night, and Lewis had to gulp down the last half of his glass of wine rather hurriedly. Skelton went off as usual to a corner of the square stone porch and smoked steadily. To his surprise, Bulstrode followed him and sat down on a bench. After a while Bulstrode began, argumentatively: “I don’t see why you want to drive Blair to the wall.” Skelton took his cigar from his lips, and was silent with astonishment. Bulstrode never presumed to force himself into Skelton’s private affairs that way. “And,” continued Bulstrode, with his rich, beautiful voice full of tears, “he has that sweet and charming wife. Good God! Skelton, you must have a heart of stone!”