The stand is already nearly full, and Blanche, herself not the least attraction to many of the throng, has manœuvred into a capital place with Mary by her side, and is in a state of nervous delight, partly at the gaiety of the scene, partly at the coming contest in which “Cousin Charlie” is to engage, and partly at the anticipation of the Guyville ball, her first appearance in public, to take place this very night. Row upon row the benches have been gradually filling, till the assemblage looks like a variegated parterre of flowers to those in the arena below. In that enclosed space are gathered, besides the pride of the British army, swells and dandies of every different description and calibre. Do-nothing gentlemen from London, glad to get a little fresh air and excitement so cheap. Nimrods from “the shires” come to criticise the performances, and suggest, by implication, how much better they could ride themselves. Horse-dealers, and professional “legs,” of course, whose business it is to make the most of everything, and whose courteous demeanour is only equalled by the unblushing effrontery with which they offer “five points” less than the odds; nor, though last not least, must we omit to mention the _élite_ of Bubbleton, who have one and all cast up from “the Spout,” as that salubrious town is sometimes denominated, as they always do cast up within reach of their favourite resort. Some of all sorts there are amongst _them_. Gentlemen of family, without incumbrances--gentlemen with incumbrances and no family; some with money and no brains--some with brains and no money; some that live on the fat of the land--others that live upon their wits, and pick up a subsistence therewith, bare as might be expected from the dearth of capital on which they trade. In the midst of them we recognise Frank Hardingstone, sufficiently conspicuous in his simple manly attire, amongst the chained and velveted and bedizened tigers by whom he is surrounded. He is talking to a remarkably good-looking and particularly well-dressed man, known to nearly every one on the course as Mr. Jason, the famous steeple-chase rider, who has come partly to sell Mr. Hardingstone a horse, partly to patronise the “soldiers’ performances,” and partly to enjoy the gay scene which he is even now criticising. He is good enough to express his approval of the ladies in the stand, taking them _en masse_, though his fastidious taste cannot but admit that there are “some weedy-looking ones among ’em.” All this, however, is lost upon Frank Hardingstone, who has ears only for a conversation going on at his elbow, in which he hears Blanche’s name mentioned, our friend Lacquers being the principal speaker. “Three hundred thousand--I give you my honour, every penny of it!” says that calculating worthy to a speculative dandy with enormous red whiskers, “and a _nice_ girl too--devilish well read, you know, and all that.”