‘How about Lord Brailstone’s man?’

‘Female partner in a quadrille, sir.’

‘Ah!’ Potts doated on his limbs with a butcher’s eye for prize joints.

‘Cock-sure has crowed low by sunset,’ Mallard observed.

Fleetwood offered him to take his bets.

‘You’re heavy on it with Brailstone?’ said Mallard.

‘Three thousand.’

‘I’d back you for your luck blindfold.’

A ruffle of sourness shot over the features of the earl, and was noticed by both eager betters, who exchanged a glance.

Potts inspected his watch, and said half aloud:  ’Liver, ten to one!  That never meant bad luck—­except bad to act on.  We slept here last night, you know.  It ’s a mile and a quarter from the Royal Sovereign to the field of glory.  Pretty well time to start.  Brailstone has a drive of a couple of miles.  Coaches from London down by this time.  Abrane’s dead on Ben Todds, any odds.  Poor old Braney!  “Steady man, Todds.”  Backs him because he’s a “respectable citizen,”—­don’t drink.  A prize-fighter total abstainer has no spurts.  Old Braney’s branded for the losing side.  You might bet against Braney blindfold, Mallard.  How long shall you take to polish him off, Kit Ines?’

The opponent of Ben Todds calculated.

’Well, sir, steady Benny ought to be satisfied with his dose in, say, about forty minutes.  Maybe he won’t own to it before an hour and ten.  He’s got a proud English stomach.’

‘Shall we be late?’ Potts asked.

‘Jump in,’ Fleetwood said to his man.  ’We may be five minutes after time, Chummy.  I had a longer drive, and had to get married on the way, and—­ah, here they are!’

‘Lady coming?’

’I fancy she sticks to the coach; I don’t know her tastes.  Madge must see her through it, that’s positive.’

Potts deferred his astonishment at the things he was hearing and seeing, which were only Fleetwood’s riddles.  The fight and the bets rang every other matter out of his head.  He beheld the lady, who had come down from the coach like a columbine, mount it like Bean-stalk Jack.  Madge was not half so clever, and required a hand at her elbow.

After, giving hurried directions to Rundles, the landlord of the Royal Sovereign, Fleetwood took the reins, and all three gentlemen touched hats to the curtseying figure of Mrs. Rundles.

‘You have heard, I dare say—­it’s an English scene,’ he spoke, partly turning his face, to Carinthia; ’particularly select to-day.  Their Majesties might look on, as the Caesars did in Rome.  Pity we can’t persuade them.  They ought to set the fashion.  Here we have the English people at their grandest, in prime condition, if they were not drunk overnight; and dogged, perfectly awake, magnanimous, all for fair play; fine fellows, upon my word.  A little blood, of course.’