he animals which they said that he owned, and which he ran in the
name of Mr. Macnab,--said some; of Mr. Pardoe,--said others; of Mr.
Chickerwick,--said a third set of informants. The fact was that Lord
Chiltern at this moment had no interest of his own in any horse upon
the turf.

But all the world knew that he drank. He had taken by the throat
a proctor's bull-dog when he had been drunk at Oxford, had nearly
strangled the man, and had been expelled. He had fallen through his
violence into some terrible misfortune at Paris, had been brought
before a public judge, and his name and his infamy had been made
notorious in every newspaper in the two capitals. After that he had
fought a ruffian at Newmarket, and had really killed him with his
fists. In reference to this latter affray it had been proved that the
attack had been made on him, that he had not been to blame, and that
he had not been drunk. After a prolonged investigation he had come
forth from that affair without disgrace. He would have done so, at
least, if he had not been heretofore disgraced. But we all know how
the man well spoken of may steal a horse, while he who is of evil
repute may not look over a hedge. It was asserted widely by many who
were supposed to know all about everything that Lord Chiltern was in
a fit of delirium tremens when he killed the ruffian at Newmarket.
The worst of that latter affair was that it produced the total
estrangement which now existed between Lord Brentford and his son.
Lord Brentford would not believe that his son was in that matter
more sinned against than sinning. "Such things do not happen to
other men's sons," he said, when Lady Laura pleaded for her brother.
Lady Laura could not induce her father to see his son, but so far
prevailed that no sentence of banishment was pronounced against
Lord Chiltern. There was nothing to prevent the son sitting at
his father's table if he so pleased. He never did so please,--but
nevertheless he continued to live in the house in Portman Square;
and when he met the Earl, in the hall, perhaps, or on the staircase,
would simply bow to him. Then the Earl would bow again, and shuffle
on,--and look very wretched, as no doubt he was. A grown-up son must
be the greatest comfort a man can have,--if he be his father's best
friend; but otherwise he can hardly be a comfort. As it was in this
house, the son was a constant thorn in his father's side.

"What does he do when we leave London?" Lord Bre