The captain returned no answer; but Derrick, who was in excellent spirits notwithstanding the anxieties of the coming day, continued to address him in that healthy and cheerful strain which is the most intolerable of all manners to one who is melancholy, and what is worse, in dread suspense. “Now, for my part, Walter, any letter in a woman's hand, as I think yours is--nay, you foolish lad, if you hadn't stuffed it into your breast-pocket so quickly, I protest I should have thought it had come from your mother or your sister. Why, you don't mean to say that that pretty little gate-keeper down at Mirk writes letters to handsome Master Walter?” “And why not?” asked the captain defiantly. “If it had come from Mistress Forest, then, indeed, you might have taken upon yourself to object, although I understand that even there, you have not yet obtained the position of bridegroom-elect.” “No,” returned Derrick drily. “I was about to say that _I_ should have welcomed any letter in a woman's hand, especially if it began: 'My dearest '“---- “What the devil do you mean by looking over my letter?” exclaimed Master Walter, starting up in a fury. “Nothing,” answered the other, purple with laughter and muffin; “I never dreamed of such a thing. But since you said it came from the gate-keeper's daughter, I thought I'd make a shot. The idea of my wanting to read all the pretty things the little fool writes to a wicked young dog like you; it's no fun to me to watch a moth at a candle. But what a spoiled lad it is! Why, here I have had no letter at all from Mirk, and yet I am content. Silence gives consent, they say; and particularly in this case, when I know nothing but your lady-mother prevents Mary writing 'My dearest Ralph' to me. Indeed, if she wrote 'Dear sir, I can have no more to do with you,' it would not have the smallest effect. What I have made up my mind to do, generally comes to pass. Where there's a _will_--that is, supposing it is strong enough--there is most times a _way_.” “I know you're a devil of a fellow,” sneered Master Walter, rising and gazing out of window at the bustling street already astir with the Derby vehicles; “but I am afraid your _will_ can't win me this race.” “It's done a great deal towards it, Captain Lisgard. It brought about the trial-race with the 'crack,' although my Lord did give himself such cursed airs, and not only let you in for a good thing, but lent you the money to take advantage of it to the uttermost.” “That's true,” said Walter frankly, and holding out his thin white hand. “I daresay you think me an ungrateful beast, but I'm worried by a matter that you know nothing of; besides”---- “Not another word, lad--not another word; I am a rude rough creature, and I said some unpleasant things myself.--Here is our Hansom, and with light-green curtains of gauze. I'm cursed if I go down to Epsom with the colours of _The King_ on my cab. Why, the beggar must have done it to insult us.”