"Like many other handicap 'pots' this season, my nag came in worse than second." "A case of jockeying?" "Pure and simple." "When?" "O, ah--York races." "Why, man alive, they don't come off for a month yet!" responded Sir Madoc, somewhat dryly; but perceiving that his guest was awkwardly placed, he changed the subject by saying, "But your letter, Lady Estelle, gives you pleasure, I am glad to see." "It is from Lord Pottersleigh. He arrives here to-morrow and hopes his rooms have a southern exposure." "The fête-day--of course. His comforts shall be fully attended to." "Why did he write to _her_ about this, and not to Sir Madoc or Miss Lloyd?" thought I. "He is such an old friend," remarked Lady Estelle, as if she divined my mental query. "Yes, rather too old for my taste," said the somewhat mischievous Dora. "He wears goloshes in damp weather, his hat down on the nape of his neck; is in an agony of mind about exposures, draughts, and currents of air; makes his horse shy every time he attempts to mount, and they go round in circles, eyeing each other suspiciously till a groom comes; and when he does achieve his saddle, he drops his whip or his gloves, or twists his stirrup-leather. And yet it is this old fogie whose drag at Epsom or the Derby makes the greatest show, has the finest display of lovely faces, fans, bonnets, and parasols--a moving Swan and Edgar, with a luncheon spread that Fortnum and Mason might envy, and champagne flowing as if from a fountain; but withal, he is so tiresome!" "Dora, you quite forget yourself," said Winifred, while I could have kissed her for this sketch of my rival, at which Sir Madoc, and even Estelle Cressingham, laughed; but Lady Naseby said, with some asperity of tone, "Lord Pottersleigh is one of our richest peers, Miss Dora, and his creation dates from Henry VIII." "And he is to dance with me," said the heedless girl, still laughing. "O, won't I astonish his nerves if we waltz!" "Your cousin Naseby is to visit us, Estelle, at Walcot Park, so soon as we return, if he can," said the Countess, turning from Dora with a very dubious expression of eye, and closing a letter she had received; "his love-affair with that odious Irish girl is quite off, thank heaven!" "How?--love of change, or change of love?" "Neither." "What then, mamma?" "The Irish girl actually had a mind of her own, and preferred some one else even to a peer, an English peer!" "I drain this clicquot to the young lady's happiness," said Sir Madoc. "But all this is nothing to me, mamma," said Lady Estelle, coldly. But I could see at a glance, that if it was unimportant to _her_, it was not so to her mother, his aunt, who would rather have had the young earl for her son-in-law than the old viscount, even though the patent of the latter had been expede by the royal Bluebeard, most probably for services that pertained more to knavery than knighthood. "Well, Caradoc," said I, "is your despatch from the regiment?"