“Yes,” said I, “with the greatest displeasure:  Never do anything which you feel will be disagreeable to yourself.”

“My lord!” he cried in the greatest glee, “that is by far the best of all; that must go down in my book, it is so practical, and of everyday use.”

I was, of course, equally delighted to afford so young a man so much instruction, and thought what a thing it is to be young.  However, here was an opportunity not to be lost of showing him how to put to the practical test of experience two at least, if not all three, of the little aphorisms, and I said so.

“I should be delighted, my lord, to put your advice into practice at the earliest opportunity,” he answered.

“That will be on Sunday,” said I, “at twelve o’clock.  Don’t preach a long sermon!”

In due time we arrived at the Sheriff’s house, and there found all the guests assembled and waiting to meet me.  I was quite quick enough to perceive at a glance that they had been planning some scheme to entrap me—­at all events, to cause me embarrassment.  The ladies were in it, for they all smiled, and said as plainly by their looks as possible, “We shall have you nicely, Judge, depend upon it, by-and-by.”

The Sheriff was the chief spokesman.  No sooner had we sat down to table than he addressed me in a most unaffected manner, as if the question were quite in the ordinary course, and had not been planned.  I answered it in the same spirit.

“My lord, could you kindly tell us which horse has won the Cup?” evidently thinking that I had been to the course.

There was a dead silence at this crucial question—­a silence that you could feel was the result of a deep-laid conspiracy—­and all the ladies smiled.

Fortunately I was not caught; nor was I even taken aback; my presence of mind did not desert me in this my hour of need; and I said, in the most natural tone I could assume,—­

“Yes, I was sure that would be the first question you would ask me when I had the pleasure of meeting this brilliant company, as you knew I must pass through Chester Station; so I popped my head out of the window and asked the porter which horse had won.  He told me the Judge had won by a length, Chaplain was a good second, and Sheriff a bad third.”

The squire took his defeat like a man.

I was reminded during the evening of a singular case of bigamy—­a double bigamy—­that came before me at Derby, in which the simple story was that an unfortunate couple had got married twenty years before the time I speak of, and that they had the good luck to find out they did not care for one another the week after they were married.  It would have been luckier if they had found it out a week before instead of a week after; but so it was, and in the circumstances they did the wisest thing, probably, that they could.  They separated, and never met again until they met in the dock before me—­a trysting-place not of their own choosing, and more strange than a novelist would dream of.