“I don't think I am; I've had things to try me, you see. There was that Verschoyle's proposal. I did absolutely think at one time she'd marry me before I could protest against it! Then there was that shock to one's whole nervous system, when that indigo man, who took Lady Laura's house, asked us to dinner, and actually thought we should go!--and there was a scene, you know, of all earthly horrors, when Mrs. Gervase was so near eloping with me, and Gervase cut up rough, instead of pitying me; and then the field-days were so many, and so late into the season; and I exhausted myself so at the Belvoir theatricals at Easter; and I toiled so atrociously playing 'Almaviva' at your place, Seraph--a private opera's galley slave's work!--and, altogether, I've had a good many things to pull me down since the winter,” concluded Bertie, with a plaintive self-condolence over his truffles. The rest of his condemning judges laughed, and passed the plea of sympathy; the Coldstreamer alone remained censorious and untouched. “Pull you down! You'll never pull off the race if you sit drinking liqueurs all the morning!” growled that censor. “Look at that!” Bertie glanced at the London telegram tossed across to him, sent from a private and confidential agent. “Betting here--two to one on L'Etoile; Irish Roan offered and taken freely. Slight decline in closing prices for the King; getting on French bay rather heavily at midnight. Fancy there's a commission out against the King. Looks suspicious.” Cecil shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows a little. “All the better for us. Take all they'll lay against me. It's as good as our having a 'Commission out'; and if any cads get one against us it can't mean mischief, as it would with professional jocks.” “Are you so sure of yourself, Beauty?” Beauty shook his head repudiatingly. “Never am sure of anything, much less of myself. I'm a chameleon, a perfect chameleon!” “Are you so sure of the King, then?” “My dear fellow, no! I ask you in reason, how can I be sure of what isn't proved? I'm like that country fellow the old story tells of; he believed in fifteen shillings because he'd once had it in his hand; others, he'd heard, believed in a pound; but, for his part, he didn't, because he'd never seen it. Now that was a man who'd never commit himself; he might had had the Exchequer! I'm the same; I believe the King can win at a good many things because I've seen him do 'em; but I can't possibly tell whether he can get this, because I've never ridden him for it. I shall be able to tell you at three o'clock--but that you don't care for----” And Bertie, exhausted with making such a lengthened exposition--the speeches he preferred were monosyllabic--completed his sins against training with a long draught of claret-cup. “Then what the devil do you mean by telling us to pile our pots on you?” asked the outraged Coldstreamer, with natural wrath. “Faith is a beautiful sight!” said Bertie, with solemnity.