The conversation had now become general and
animated, or rather there was a medley of voices in which
little was distinguished except the names of horses and the
amount of odds. In the midst of all this, waiters glided
about handing incomprehensible mixtures bearing aristocratic
names; mystical combinations of French wines and German
waters, flavoured with slices of Portugal fruits, and cooled
with lumps of American ice, compositions which immortalized
the creative genius of some high patrician name.
"By Jove! that's a flash," exclaimed Lord Milford, as a blaze
of lightning seemed to suffuse the chamber, and the beaming
lustres turned white and ghastly in the glare.
The thunder rolled over the building. There was a dead
silence. Was it going to rain? Was it going to pour? Was
the storm confined to the metropolis? Would it reach Epsom?
A deluge, and the course would be a quagmire, and strength
might baffle speed.
Another flash, another explosion, the hissing noise of rain.
Lord Milford moved aside, and jealous of the eye of another,
read a letter from Chifney, and in a few minutes afterwards
offered to take the odds against Pocket Hercules. Mr Latour
walked to the window, surveyed the heavens, sighed that there
was not time to send his tiger from the door to Epsom, and get
information whether the storm had reached the Surrey hills,
for to-night's operations.
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