Sir Lucius was a first-rate jockey; his
colleague was quite ignorant of the noble science in all its details;
but that was of slight importance. The Baronet was to be the working
partner, and do the business; the Duke the show member of the concern,
and do the magnificence; as one banker, you may observe, lives always in
Portland Place, reads the Court Journal all the morning, and has an
opera-box, while his partner lodges in Lombard Street, thumbs a
price-current, and only has a box at Clapham.
The young Duke, however, was ambitious of making a good book; and, with
all the calm impetuosity which characterises a youthful Hauteville,
determined to have a crack stud at once. So at Ascot, where he spent
a few pleasant hours, dined at the Cottage, was caught in a shower, in
return caught a cold, a slight influenza for a week, and all the world
full of inquiries and anxiety; at Ascot, I say, he bought up all the
winning horses at an average of three thousand guineas for each pair of
ears. Sir Lucius stared, remonstrated, and, as his remonstrances were in
vain, assisted him.
As people at the point of death often make a desperate rally, so
this, the most brilliant of seasons, was even more lively as it nearer
approached its end.
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