his morning?" said Wurley, picking over
daintily some of the curry to which he had helped himself.

"No, I was at my uncle's, at Englebourn, last night. It is very
little out of the way; so I thought I would just call on my road
home."

"Quite right. I'm very glad you came without ceremony. People
about here are so d-d full of ceremony. It don't suit me, all
that humbug. But I wish you'd just pick a bit."

"Thank you. Then I will eat some fruit," said Tom, helping
himself to some of the freshly picked grapes; "how very fine
these are!"

"Yes, I'm open to back my houses against the field for twenty
miles round. This curry isn't fit for a pig--Take it out, and
tell the cook so." The butler solemnly obeyed, while his master
went on with one of the frequent oaths with which he garnished
his conversation. "You're right, they can't spoil the fruit.
They're a set of skulking devils, are servants. They think of
nothing but stuffing themselves, and how they can cheat you most,
and do the least work." Saying which, he helped himself to some
fruit; and the two ate their grapes for a short time in silence.
But even fruit seemed to pall quickly on him, and he pushed away
his plate. The butler came back with a silver tray, with soda
water, and a small decanter of brandy, and long glasses on it.

"Won't you have something after your ride?" said the host to Tom;
"some soda water with a dash of bingo clears one's head in the
morning."

"No, thank you," said Tom, smiling, "it's bad for training."

"Ah, you Oxford men are all for training," said his host,
drinking greedily of the foaming mixture which the butler handed
to him. "A glass of bitter ale is what you take, eh? I know. Get
some ale for Mr. Brown."

Tom felt that it would be uncivil to refuse this orthodox offer,
and took his beer accordingly, after which his host produced a
box of Hudson's regalias, and proposed to look at the stables. So
they lighted their cigars, and went out. Mr. Wurley had taken of
late to the turf, and they inspected several young horses which
were entered for country stakes. Tom thought them weedy-looking
animals, but patiently listened to their praises and pedigrees,
upon which his host was eloquent enough; and, rubbing up his
latest readings in _Bell's Life_, and the racing talk which he
had been in the habit of hearing in Drysdale's rooms, managed to
hold his own, and asked, with a grave face, about the price of
the Coronation colt for the