“Fifty; but wait till settling-day, my good fellow, and don’t fiddle at your pockets as if I’d been touching you up for the money.  Come and sup with me to-night.”

Algernon muttered a queer reply in a good-tempered tone, and escaped him.

He was sobered by that naming of settling-day.  He could now listen to the music with attention, if not with satisfaction.  As he did so, the head of drowned memory rose slowly up through the wine-bubbles in his brain, and he flung out a far thought for relief:  “How, if I were to leave England with that dark girl Rhoda at Wrexby, marry her like a man, and live a wild ramping life in the colonies?” A curtain closed on the prospect, but if memory was resolved that it would not be drowned, he had at any rate dosed it with something fresh to occupy its digestion.

His opera-glass had been scouring the house for a sight of Mrs. Lovell, and at last she appeared in Lord Elling’s box.

“I can give you two minutes, Algy,” she said, as he entered and found her opportunely alone.  “We have lost, I hear.  No interjection, pray.  Let it be, fors l’honneur, with us.  Come to me to-morrow.  You have tossed trinkets into my lap.  They were marks of esteem, my cousin.  Take them in the same light back from me.  Turn them into money, and pay what is most pressing.  Then go to Lord Suckling.  He is a good boy, and won’t distress you; but you must speak openly to him at once.  Perhaps he will help you.  I will do my best, though whether I can, I have yet to learn.”

“Dear Mrs. Lovell!” Algernon burst out, and the corners of his mouth played nervously.

He liked her kindness, and he was wroth at the projected return of his gifts.  A man’s gifts are an exhibition of the royalty of his soul, and they are the last things which should be mentioned to him as matters to be blotted out when he is struggling against ruin.  The lady had blunt insight just then.  She attributed his emotion to gratitude.

“The door may be opened at any minute,” she warned him.

“It’s not about myself,” he said; “it’s you.  I believe I tempted you to back the beastly horse.  And he would have won—­a fair race, and he would have won easy.  He was winning.  He passed the stand a head ahead.  He did win.  It’s a scandal to the Turf.  There’s an end of racing in England.  It’s up.  They’ve done for themselves to-day.  There’s a gang.  It’s in the hands of confederates.”

“Think so, if it consoles you,” said Mrs. Lovell, “don’t mention your thoughts, that is all.”

“I do think so.  Why should we submit to a robbery?  It’s a sold affair.  That Frenchman, Baron Vistocq, says we can’t lift our heads after it.”

“He conducts himself with decency, I hope.”

“Why, he’s won!”

“Imitate him.”

Mrs. Lovell scanned the stalls.

“Always imitate the behaviour of the winners when you lose,” she resumed.  “To speak of other things:  I have had no letter of late from Edward.  He should be anxious to return.  I went this morning to see that unhappy girl.  She consents.”