s to their advantage.

"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. The seats on each side of the table were occupied by
persons consuming, with a heedless air, delicacies for which they had no
appetite; while the conversation in general consisted of flying phrases
referring to the impending event of the great day that had already
dawned.

"Come from Lady St Julian's, Fitz?" said a youth of very tender years,
and whose fair visage was as downy and as blooming as the peach from
which with a languid air he withdrew his lips to make this inquiry of
the gentleman with the cane.

"Yes; why were not you there?"

"I never go anywhere," replied the melancholy Cupid, "everything bores
me so."

"Well, will you go to Epsom with us to-morrow, Alfred?" said Lord
Fitzheron. "I take Berners and Charles Egremont, and with you our party
will be perfect."

"I feel so cursed blase!" exclaimed the boy in a tone of elegant
anguish.

"It will give you a fillip, Alfred," said Mr Berners; "do you all the
good in the world."

"Nothing can do me good," said Alfred, throwing away his almost untasted
peach, "I should be quite content if anything could do me harm. Waiter,
bring me a