The Duke's Children. Anthony Trollope

here before?" asked the Lord.

      "Not in here, my Lord. I just looked in at the smoking-room last night. Glasslough and Nidderdale were there. I thought we should have got up a rubber, but they didn't seem to see it."

      "There is whist here generally. You'll find out all about it before long. Perhaps they are a little afraid of you."

      "I'm the worst hand at cards, I suppose, in England. A dash at loo for about an hour, and half-a-dozen cuts at blind hookey—that's about my form. I know I drop more than I pick up. If I knew what I was about I should never touch a card."

      "Horses; eh, Tifto?"

      "Horses, yes. They've pretty good claret, here, eh, Silverbridge?" He could never hit off his familiarity quite right. He had my-Lorded his young friend at first, and now brought out the name with a hesitating twang, which the young nobleman appreciated. But then the young nobleman was quite aware that the Major was a friend for club purposes, and sporting purposes, and not for home use.

      "Everything of that kind is pretty good here," said the Lord.

      "You were saying—horses."

      "I dare say you do better with them than with cards."

      "If I didn't I don't know where I should be, seeing what a lot pass through my hands in the year. Any one of our fellows who has a horse to sell thinks that I am bound to buy him. And I do buy 'em. Last May I had forty-two hunters on my hands."

      "How many of them have you got now?"

      "Three. Three of that lot—though a goodish many have come up since. But what does it amount to? When I have anything that is very good, some fellow that I like gets him from me."

      "After paying for him."

      "After paying for him! Yes; I don't mean that I make a fellow a present. But the man who buys has a deal the best of it. Did you ever get anything better than that spotted chestnut in your life?"

      "What, old Sarcinet?"

      "You had her for one hundred and sixty pounds. Now, if you were on your oath, what is she worth?"

      "She suits me, Major, and of course I shouldn't sell her."

      "I rather think not. I knew what that mare was, well enough. A dealer would have had three hundred and fifty pounds for her. I could have got the money easily if I had taken her down into the shires, and ridden her a day or two myself."

      "I gave you what you asked."

      "Yes, you did. It isn't often that I take less than I ask. But the fact is, about horses, I don't know whether I shouldn't do better if I never owned an animal at all but those I want for my own use. When I am dealing with a man I call a friend, I can't bear to make money of him. I don't think fellows give me all the credit they should do for sticking to them."

      The Major, as he said this, leaned back in his chair, put his hand up to his moustache, and looked sadly away into the vacancy of the room, as though he was meditating sorrowfully on the ingratitude of the world.

      "I suppose it's all right about Cream Cheese?" asked the Lord.

      "Well; it ought to be." And now the Major spoke like an oracle, leaning forward on the table, uttering his words in a low voice, but very plainly, so that not a syllable might be lost. "When you remember how he ran at the Craven with 9 st. 12 lb. on him, that it took Archbishop all he knew to beat him with only 9 st. 2 lb., and what the lot at Chester are likely to be, I don't think that there can be seven to one against him. I should be very glad to take it off your hands, only the figures are a little too heavy for me."

      "I suppose Sunflower'll be the best animal there?"

      "Not a doubt of it, if he's all right, and if his temper will stand. Think what a course Chester is for an ill-conditioned brute like that! And then he's the most uncertain horse in training. There are times he won't feed. From what I hear, I shouldn't wonder if he don't turn up at all."

      "Solomon says he's all right."

      "You won't get Solomon to take four to one against him, nor yet four and a half. I suppose you'll go down, my Lord?"

      "Well, yes; if there's nothing else doing just then. I don't know how it may be about this electioneering business. I shall go and smoke upstairs."

      At the Beargarden there were—I was going to say, two smoking-rooms; but in truth the house was a smoking-room all over. It was, however, the custom of those who habitually played cards, to have their cigars and coffee upstairs. Into this sanctum Major Tifto had not yet been introduced, but now he was taken there under Lord Silverbridge's wing. There were already four or five assembled, among whom was Mr. Adolphus Longstaff, a young man of about thirty-five years of age, who spent very much of his time at the Beargarden. "Do you know my friend Tifto?" said the Lord. "Tifto, this is Mr. Longstaff, whom men within the walls of this asylum sometimes call Dolly." Whereupon the Major bowed and smiled graciously.

      "I have heard of Major Tifto," said Dolly.

      "Who has not?" said Lord Nidderdale, another middle-aged young man, who made one of the company. Again the Major bowed.

      "Last season I was always intending to get down to your country and have a day with the Tiftoes," said Dolly. "Don't they call your hounds the Tiftoes?"

      "They shall be called so if you like," said the Major. "And why didn't you come?"

      "It always was such a grind."

      "Train down from Paddington every day at half-past ten."

      "That's all very well if you happen to be up. Well, Silverbridge, how's the Prime Minister?"

      "How is he, Tifto?" asked the noble partner.

      "I don't think there's a man in England just at present enjoying a very much better state of health," said the Major pleasantly.

      "Safe to run?" asked Dolly.

      "Safe to run! Why shouldn't he be safe to run?"

      "I mean sure to start."

      "I think we mean him to start, don't we, Silverbridge?" said the Major.

      There was something perhaps in the tone in which the last remark was made which jarred a little against the young lord's dignity. At any rate he got up and declared his purpose of going to the opera. He should look in, he said, and hear a song from Mdlle Stuffa. Mdlle Stuffa was the nightingale of the season, and Lord Silverbridge, when he had nothing else to do, would sometimes think that he was fond of music. Soon after he was gone Major Tifto had some whisky-and-water, lit his third cigar, and began to feel the glory of belonging to the Beargarden. With Lord Silverbridge, to whom it was essentially necessary that he should make himself agreeable at all times, he was somewhat overweighted as it were. Though he attempted an easy familiarity, he was a little afraid of Lord Silverbridge. With Dolly Longstaff he felt that he might be comfortable—not, perhaps, understanding that gentleman's character. With Lord Nidderdale he had previously been acquainted, and had found him to be good-natured. So, as he sipped his whisky, he became confidential and comfortable.

      "I never thought so much about her good looks," he said. They were talking of the singer, the charms of whose voice had carried Lord Silverbridge away.

      "Did you ever see her off the stage?" asked Nidderdale.

      "Oh dear yes."

      "She does not go about very much, I fancy," said someone.

      "I dare say not," said Tifto. "But she and I have had a day or two together, for all that."

      "You must have been very much favoured," said Dolly.

      "We've been pals ever since she has been over here," said Tifto, with an enormous lie.

      "How do you get on with her husband?" asked Dolly—in the simplest voice, as though not in the least surprised at his companion's statement.

      "Husband!" exclaimed the Major; who was not possessed