evidently not attractive to the majority of the gentlemen of the turf, though his answers to all the queries put to him, were admirably ready, respectful and not without wit. But to me the whole sum and substance of the occasion was the fact that I, Geoffrey Tempest, once struggling author, now millionaire, was simply by virtue of my ownership of the Derby-winner, 'famous' at last!--or what society considers famous,--that fame that secures for a man the attention of 'the nobility and gentry,' to quote from tradesmen's advertisements,--and also obtains the persistent adulation and shameless pursuit of all the _demi-mondaines_ who want jewels and horses and yachts presented to them in exchange for a few tainted kisses from their carmined lips. Under the shower of compliments I received, I stood, apparently delighted,--smiling, affable and courteous,--entering into the spirit of the occasion, and shaking hands with my Lord That, and Sir Something Nobody, and His Serene Highness the Grand Duke So-and-So of Beer-Land, and His other Serene Lowness of Small-Principality,--but in my secret soul I scorned these people with their social humbug and hypocrisy,--scorned them with such a deadly scorn as almost amazed myself. When presently I walked off the course with Lucio, who as usual seemed to know and to be friends with everybody, he spoke in accents that were far more grave and gentle than I had ever heard him use before. "With all your egotism, Geoffrey, there is something forcible and noble in your nature,--something which rises up in bold revolt against falsehood and sham. Why, in Heaven's name do you not give it way?" I looked at him amazed, and laughed. "Give it way? What do you mean? Would you have me tell humbugs that I know them as such?,--and liars that I discern their lies? My dear fellow, society would become too hot to hold me!" "It could not be hotter--or colder--than hell, if you believed in hell, which you do not,"--he rejoined, in the same quiet voice--"But I did not assume that you should say these things straight out and bluntly, to give offence. An affronting candour is not nobleness,--it is merely coarse. To act nobly is better than to speak." "And what would you have me do?" I asked curiously. He was silent for a moment, and seemed to be earnestly, almost painfully considering,--then he answered,--