try horse-dealing on the Seraph
again."

Laughter loud and long greeted the story.

"Poor Beauty," said the Dauphin, "he'd have enjoyed that. He always
put down Pulteney himself. I remember his telling me he was on duty at
Windsor once when Pulteney was staying there. Pulteney's always horribly
funked at Court; frightened out of his life when he dines with any
royalties; makes an awful figure too in a public ceremony; can't walk
backward for any money, and at his first levee tumbled down right in the
Queen's face. Now at the Castle one night he just happened to come down
a corridor as Beauty was smoking. Beauty made believe to take him for a
servant, took out a sovereign, and tossed it to him. 'Here, keep a still
tongue about my cigar, my good fellow!' Pulteney turned hot and cold,
and stammered out God knows what, about his mighty dignity being
mistaken for a valet. Bertie just laughed a little, ever so softly, 'Beg
your pardon--thought you were one of the people; wouldn't have done it
for worlds; I know you're never at ease with a sovereign!' Now Pulteney
wasn't likely to forget that. If he wanted the King, I'll lay any money
it was to give him to some wretched mount who'd break his back over a
fence in a selling race."

"Well, he won't have him; Seraph don't intend to have the horse ever
ridden or hunted at all."

"Nonsense!"

"By Jove, he means it! nobody's to cross the King's back; he wants
weight-carriers himself, you know, and precious strong ones too. The
King's put in stud at Lyonnesse. Poor Bertie! Nobody ever managed a
close finish as he did at the Grand National--last but two--don't you
remember?"

"Yes; waited so beautifully on Fly-by-Night, and shot by him like
lightning, just before the run-in. Pity he went to the bad!"

"Ah, what a hand he played at ecarte; the very best of the French
science."

"But reckless at whist; a wild game there--uncommonly wild. Drove Cis
Delareux half mad one night at Royallieu with the way he threw his
trumps out. Old Cis dashed his cards down at last, and looked him
full in the face. 'Beauty, do you know, or do you not know, that a
whist-table is not to be taken as you take a timber in a hunting-field,
on the principle of clear it or smash it?' 'Faith!' said Bertie, 'clear
it or smash it is a very good rule for anything, but a trifle too
energetic for me.'"

"The deuce, he's had enough of 'smashing' at last! I wish he hadn't come
to grief in that style; it's a sh