“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.

“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.