very honest or very chivalric,—­in accordance with the special views on the subject of the man who was speaking.  It was reported now that he no longer owned horses on the turf;—­but this was doubted by some who could name the animals which they said that he owned, and which he ran in the name of Mr. Macnab,—­said some; of Mr. Pardoe,—­said others; of Mr. Chickerwick,—­said a third set of informants.  The fact was that Lord Chiltern at this moment had no interest of his own in any horse upon the turf.

But all the world knew that he drank.  He had taken by the throat a proctor’s bull-dog when he had been drunk at Oxford, had nearly strangled the man, and had been expelled.  He had fallen through his violence into some terrible misfortune at Paris, had been brought before a public judge, and his name and his infamy had been made notorious in every newspaper in the two capitals.  After that he had fought a ruffian at Newmarket, and had really killed him with his fists.  In reference to this latter affray it had been proved that the attack had been made on him, that he had not been to blame, and that he had not been drunk.  After a prolonged investigation he had come forth from that affair without disgrace.  He would have done so, at least, if he had not been heretofore disgraced.  But we all know how the man well spoken of may steal a horse, while he who is of evil repute may not look over a hedge.  It was asserted widely by many who were supposed to know all about everything that Lord Chiltern was in a fit of delirium tremens when he killed the ruffian at Newmarket.  The worst of that latter affair was that it produced the total estrangement which now existed between Lord Brentford and his son.  Lord Brentford would not believe that his son was in that matter more sinned against than sinning.  “Such things do not happen to other men’s sons,” he said, when Lady Laura pleaded for her brother.  Lady Laura could not induce her father to see his son, but so far prevailed that no sentence of banishment was pronounced against Lord Chiltern.  There was nothing to prevent the son sitting at his father’s table if he so pleased.  He never did so please,—­but nevertheless he continued to live in the house in Portman Square; and when he met the Earl, in the hall, perhaps, or on the staircase, would simply bow to him.  Then the Earl would bow again, and shuffle on,—­and look very wretched, as no doubt he was.  A grown-up son must be the greatest comfort a man can have,—­if he be his father’s best friend; but otherwise he can hardly be a comfort.  As it was in this house, the son was a constant thorn in his father’s side.

“What does he do when we leave London?” Lord Brentford once said to his daughter.

“He stays here, papa.”

“But he hunts still?”

“Yes, he hunts,—­and he has a room somewhere at an inn,—­down in Northamptonshire.  But he is mostly in London.  They have trains on purpose.”

“What a life for my son!” said the Earl.  “What a life!  Of course no decent person will let him into his house.”  Lady Laura did not know what to say to this, for in truth Lord Chiltern was not fond of staying at the houses of persons whom the Earl would have called decent.