A party or two come on to keep them company. A club
discharges a crowd of gentlemen, a stable a crowd of grooms. At length
a sprinkling of human beings is collected, but all is wondrous still and
wondrous cold. The only thing that gives sign of life is Lord Breedall's
movable stand; and the only intimation that fire is still an element is
the sailing breath of a stray cigar.
'This, then, is Newmarket!' exclaimed the young Duke. 'If it required
five-and-twenty thousand pounds to make Doncaster amusing, a plum, at
least, will go in rendering Newmarket endurable.'
But the young Duke was wrong. There was a fine race, and the
connoisseurs got enthusiastic. Sir Lucius Grafton was the winner. The
Duke sympathised with his friend's success.
He began galloping about the course, and his blood warmed. He paid a
visit to Sanspareil. He heard his steed was still a favourite for a
coming race. He backed his steed, and Sanspareil won. He began to find
Newmarket not so disagreeable. In a word, our friend was in an entirely
new scene, which was exactly the thing he required. He was interested,
and forgot, or rather forcibly expelled from his mind, his late
overwhelming adventure.
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