"They say that Caravan looks puffy," lisped in a low voice a
young man, lounging on the edge of a buhl table that had once
belonged to a Mortemart, and dangling a rich cane with
affected indifference in order to conceal his anxiety from
all, except the person whom he addressed.
"They are taking seven to two against him freely over the
way," was the reply. "I believe it's all right."
"Do you know I dreamed last night something about Mango,"
continued the gentleman with the cane, and with a look of
uneasy superstition.
His companion shook his head.
"Well," continued the gentleman with the cane, "I have no
opinion of him. I gave Charles Egremont the odds against
Mango this morning; he goes with us, you know. By the bye,
who is our fourth?"
"I thought of Milford," was the reply in an under tone. "What
say you?"
"Milford is going with St James and Punch Hughes."
"Well, let us come into supper, and we shall see some fellow
we like."
So saying, the companions, taking their course through more
than one chamber, entered an apartment of less dimensions than
the principal saloon, but not less sumptuous in its general
appearance. The gleaming lustres poured a flood of soft yet
brilliant light over a plateau glittering with gold plate, and
fragrant with exotics embedded in vases of rare porcelain.
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