“Cavendish is right,--that is, as much so as he can be in anything,” said Willoughby, laughing. “Don't put him up, Martin.” “Then what am I to do? I have given a sort of a pledge. He is not easily put off; he does not lightly relinquish an object.” “Take him off the scent. Introduce him at the Embassy. Take him to the Courcelles.” “This is intolerable,” broke in Martin, angrily. “I ask for advice, and you reply by a sneer and a mockery.” “Not at all. I never was more serious. But here he comes! Look only how the fellow lolls back in the phaeton. Just see how contemptuously he looks down on the foot-travellers. I'd lay on another hundred for that stare; for, assuredly, he has already made the purchase in his own mind.” “Well, Merl, what do you say to Sir Spencer's taste in horseflesh?” said Martin, as he entered. “They 're nice hacks; very smart.” “Nice hacks!” broke in Cavendish, “why, sir, they're both thoroughbred; the near horse is by Tiger out of a Crescent mare, and the off one won the Acton steeple-chase. When you said hacks, therefore, you made a cruel blunder.” “Well, it's what a friend of mine called them just now,” said Merl; “and remarked, moreover, that the large horse had been slightly fired on the--the--I forget the name he gave it.” “You probably remember your friend's name better,” said Cavendish, sneeringly. “Who was he, pray?” “Massingbred,--we call him Jack Massingbred; he's the Member for somewhere in Ireland.” “Poor Jack!” muttered Cavendish, “how hard up he must be!” “But you like the equipage, Merl?” said Martin, who had a secret suspicion that it was now Cavendish's turn for a little humiliation. “Well, it's neat. The buggy--” “The buggy! By Jove, sir, you have a precious choice of epithets! Please to let me inform you that full-blooded horses are not called hacks, nor one of Leader's park-phaetons is not styled a buggy.” Martin threw himself into a chair, and after a moment's struggle, burst out into a fit of laughter. “I think we may make a deal after all, Sir Spencer,” said Merl, who accepted the baronet's correction with admirable self-control. “No, sir; perfectly impossible; take my word for it, any transaction would be difficult between us. Good-bye, Martin; adieu, Claude.” And with this brief leave-taking the peppery Sir Spencer left the room, more flushed and fussy than he had entered it. “If you knew Sir Spencer Cavendish as long as we have known him, Mr. Merl,” said Lord Claude, in his blandest of voices, “you'd not be surprised at this little display of warmth. It is the only weakness in a very excellent fellow.” “I 'm hot, too, my Lord,” said Merl, with the very slightest accentuation of the “initial H,” “and he was right in saying that dealings would be difficult between us.” “You mentioned Massingbred awhile ago, Merl. Why not ask him to second you at the Club?” said Martin, rousing himself suddenly from a train of thought.