At the end of the room a group of some twenty persons stood or sat around a chair in which a thin elderly gentleman was seated, his fine and delicately marked features far more unequivocally proclaiming rank than even the glittering star he wore on his breast. Without being in reality very old, Lord Drogheda seemed so, for, partly from delicacy of health, and partly, as some affirmed, from an affectation of age (a more frequent thing than is expected), he had contracted a stoop, and walked with every sign of debility. “Well, gentlemen, how does time go?” said he, with an easy smile. “Are we not near the hour?” “Yes; it wants but eleven minutes of ten now, my Lord,” said one of the group. “Do you mean to hold him sharp to time?” “Egad, I should think so,” interrupted a red-whiskered squire, in splashed top-boots. “I've ridden in from Kildare to-night to see the match, and I protest against any put-off.” Lord Drogheda turned his eyes towards the speaker with a look in which mildness was so marked, it could not be called reproof, but it evidently confused him, as he added, “Of course, if the gentlemen who have heavy wagers on it are content I must be also.” “I, for one, say 'sharp time,'” cried out a dapperly dressed young fellow, with an open pocket-book in his hand; “play or pay is the only rule in these cases.” “I 've backed my Lord at eight to ten, in hundreds,” said another, “and certainly I 'll claim my bet if the Knight is one minute late.” “Then you have just three to decide that question,” said one at his side. “My watch is with the Post-office.” “Quite, time enough left to order my carriage,” said Lord Drogheda, rising with an energy very different from his ordinary indolent habit. “If the Knight of Gwynne should be accidentally delayed, gentlemen, I, for my part, prefer being also absent. It will then be a matter of some difficulty for the parties betting to say who is the delinquent.” He took his hat as he spoke, and was moving through the crowd, when a sudden cheer from without was heard, and then, almost the instant after, a confused sound of acclamation as the Knight of Gwynne entered, leaning on the arm of Con Heffernan. Making his way with difficulty through the crowd of welcoming friends and acquaintances, the Knight approached the end of the room where Lord Drogheda now awaited him, standing. “Not late, my Lord, though very near it,” said he, extending his hand. “If I should apologize, however, I have an excuse you will not reject,--Con Heffernan's Burgundy is hard to part with.” “Very true, Knight,” said his Lordship, smiling. “With a friend one sees so seldom, a little dalliance is most pardonable.” This sarcasm was met by a ready laugh, for Heffernan was better known as a guest at other tables than a host at his own; nor did he, at whose expense the jest was made, refrain from joining in the mirth, while he added,--