“Nothing. I’m as fond of a horse as any man, but I’m profoundly ignorant of racing, and I never bet.” “That’s a pity, because I could have put you up to one or two good things for the spring meetings. Fine institution—betting,” added Kester, as he lighted another cigar. “It is one of the pleasantest of our vices, when judiciously pursued. When we win, it is a source of double gratification: we not only put money into our own pockets, but we take it out of the pockets of other people.” “And when you lose?” said Lionel. “To bear one’s losses like a man of the world and a gentleman is to prove that the teachings of philosophy have not been in vain.” “May I venture to hope that, as yet, you have had no occasion to seek consolation in the teachings of philosophy?” “I won four thousand over the last St. Leger.” “For the present, then, the Stoics are at a discount.—Kester,” said Lionel, abruptly breaking off the subject, “you won’t object to come and see me at Park Newton?” Kester was leaning back in his easy chair, watching the smoke-wreaths as they curled idly upwards from his cigar. His thick black eyebrows came together in a deep, meditative frown as he heard Lionel’s question. For a minute or two he did not answer. “Frankly, no. I’ll come and see you,” he said at last. “Why shouldn’t I? It will pain me at first to go back to the old place as guest, where once I thought that I should be master. But, thank Heaven, I’m not one of the most impressionable of men, and the feeling will soon wear off. Yes, Lionel, I’ll come and see you.” Lionel was pleased that he had succeeded so far. “Perhaps, after a time,” he thought, “I may be able to persuade him to accept the three thousand a year.” “You will keep up the old place in proper style, I suppose?” said Kester presently. “I shall live very quietly—at least for some time to come,” said Lionel. “Which means, I suppose, that you will see very little company, and not rest satisfied unless you can save two-thirds of your income. That you will breakfast and dine in that ugly little parlour which overlooks the fishpond, and snore by night inside the huge four-poster in the Griffin-room.” Lionel laughed his careless, good-hearted laugh. “To one count of your indictment I can plead guilty,” he said. “I certainly have both breakfasted and dined in the parlour overlooking the fishpond. But, on the other hand, I have certainly never slept in the Griffin, which has been locked up ever since Uncle Arthur’s death.” “Ah!” sighed Kester, and it sounded so like a sigh of relief or thankfulness that Lionel could not help noticing it. “No wonder you don’t care to sleep in the Griffin,” he added, after a brief pause. “With its oak-panelled walls, and its plumed bedstead that always put me in mind of a hearse, it used to give me a fit of horrors whenever I went into it; and yet my uncle would never sleep anywhere else.”