When the Derby was run, and Voltigeur was announced as the winner, Sir Joseph, who saw the race from the box of his carriage--having his arm around her ladyship, who stood on the back seat, and thought all men the greatest hypocrites in creation (and so a man _is_ the greatest hypocrite of all animals, save one)--Raikes jumped up and gave a "Hurrah!" which he suddenly checked when his wife asked, with a deathlike calmness, "And pray, sir, have you been betting upon the race, that you are so excited?" "Oh no, my love; of course not. But you know it's a Yorkshire horse, and I--I'm glad it wins; that's all," Raikes said; in which statement there was not, I am sorry to say, a word of truth. Raikes wasn't a betting man any more. He had forsworn it: he would never bet again. But he had just, in the course of the day, taken the odds in _one_ little bet; and he had just happened to win. When his wife charged him with the crime, he was about to avow it. "But no," he thought; "it will be a surprise for her. I will buy her the necklace she scolded me about at Lacy and Gimcrack's; it's just the sum. She has been sulky all day. It's about that she is sulky now. I'll go and have another shy at the sticks." And he went away, delighting himself with this notion, and with the idea that at last he could satisfy his adorable little Zuleika. As Raikes passed Mrs. Somerset Montmorency's brougham, Zuleika remarked how that lady beckoned to him, and how Raikes went up to her. Though he did not remain by the carriage two minutes, Zuleika was ready to take an affidavit that he was there for half an hour; and was saluted by a satanical grin from Vincent, who by this time had returned to her carriage side, and was humming a French tune, which says that "_on revient toujours a ses premi-e-res amours, a se-es premieres amours_." "What is that you are singing? How dare you sing that?" cried Lady Raikes, with tears. "It's an old song--you used to sing it," said Mr. Vincent. "By the way, I congratulate you. Your husband has won six hundred pounds. I heard Betterton say so, who gave him the odds." "He is a wretch! He gave me his word of honor that he didn't bet. He is a gambler--he'll ruin his child! He neglects his wife for that--that creature! He calls her Lord Crick--crick--ipplegate," sobbed her ladyship, "Why did I marry him?" "Why, indeed!" said Mr. Vincent. As the two were talking, Dolly Trotter, her ladyship's brother, came up to the carriage; at which, with a scowl on his wicked countenance, and indulging inwardly in language which I am very glad not to be called upon to report, Vincent retired, biting his nails, like a traitor, and exhibiting every sign of ill-humor which the villain of a novel or of a play is wont to betray. "Don't have that fellow about you, Zuly," Dolly said to his darling sister. "He is a bad one. He's no principle: he--he's a gambler, and every thing that's bad."