“Certain! But if he don't I promise you as pretty a tableau as your Asnieres one; for your sake, I'll make the finish as picturesque as possible. Wouldn't it be well to give me a lock of hair in readiness?” Her ladyship laughed and shook her head; if a man killed himself, she did not desire that her gracious name should be entangled with the folly. “No; I don't do those things,” she said, with captivating waywardness. “Besides, though the Oos looks cool and pleasant, I greatly doubt that under any pressure you would trouble it; suicides are too pronounced for your style, Bertie.” “At all events, a little morphia in one's own rooms would be quieter, and better taste,” said Cecil, while he caught himself listlessly wondering, as he had wondered at Richmond, if this badinage were to turn into serious fact--how much would she care. “May your sins be forgiven you!” cried Chesterfield, the apostle of training, as he and the Seraph came up to the table where Cecil and Cos Wentworth were breakfasting in the garden of the Stephanien on the race-day itself. “Liqueurs, truffles, and every devilment under the sun?--cold beef, and nothing to drink, Beauty, if you've any conscience left!” “Never had a grain, dear boy, since I can remember,” murmured Bertie apologetically. “You took all the rawness off me at Eton.” “And you've been taking coffee in bed, I'll swear!” pursued the cross-examiner. “What if he have? Beauty's condition can't be upset by a little mocha, nor mine either,” said his universal defender; and the Seraph shook his splendid limbs with a very pardonable vanity. “Ruteroth trains; Ruteroth trains awfully,” put in Cos Wentworth, looking up out of a great silver flagon of Badminton, with which he was ending his breakfast; and referring to that Austrian who was to ride the Paris favorite. “Remember him at La Marche last year, and the racing at Vincennes--didn't take a thing that could make flesh--muscles like iron, you know--never touched a soda even----” “I've trained, too,” said Bertie submissively; “look how I've been waltzing! There isn't harder work than that for any fellow. A deuxtemps with the Duchess takes it out of you like any spin over the flat.” His censurers laughed, but did not give in their point. “You've run shocking risks, Beauty,” said Chesterfield; “the King's in fine running-form; don't say he isn't; but you've said scores of times what a deal of riding he takes. Now, can you tell us yourself that you're in as hard condition as you were when you won the Military, eh?” Cecil shook his head with a sigh.