ites 'naming' with an
'e.' Didn't you remark that?"

But as Sir Stafford paid no attention to the criticism, he went on:

"As to the 'Whip,' I may as well tell you, that I scratched my own name
myself. They are a set of low 'Legs,' and, except poor Effy, and two or
three others of the same brilliant stamp, not a gentleman amongst them."

"The defalcation is, however, true?" asked Sir Stafford.

"If you mean to ask whether a man always wins at Doncaster or Newmarket,
the question is of the easiest to answer."

"I certainly presume that he always pays what he loses, my Lord,"
replied Sir Stafford, coloring at the evasive impertinence of the other.

"Of course he does, when he has it, Sir Stafford; but that is a most
essential condition, for the 'Turf' is not precisely like a mercantile
pursuit."

Sir Stafford winced under the flippant insolence with which this was
spoken.

"There is not exactly a fair way to calculate profit, nor any assurance
against accidental loss. A horse, Sir Stafford, is not an Indiaman; a
betting man is, therefore, in a position quite exceptional."

"If a man risks what he cannot pay, he is dishonorable," said Sir
Stafford, in a short, abrupt tone.

"I see that you cannot enter into a theme so very different from all
your habits and pursuits. You think there is a kind of bankruptcy when
a man gets a little behind with his bets. You don't see that all these
transactions are on 'honor,' and that if one does 'bolt,' he means to
'book up' another time. There was George, your own son--"

"What of him? what of George?" cried Sir Stafford, with a convulsive
grasp of the chair, while the color fled from his cheek, and he seemed
ready to faint with emotion.

"Oh, nothing in the world to cause you uneasiness. A more honorable
fellow never breathed than George."

"Then, what of him? How comes his name to your lips at such a discussion
as this? Tell me, this instant, my Lord. I command I entreat you!"

And the old man shook like one in an ague; but Norwood saw his
vantage-ground, and determined to use it unsparingly. He therefore
merely smiled, and said, "Pray be calm, Sir Stafford. I repeat that
there is nothing worthy of a moment's chagrin. I was only about to
observe that if I had the same taste for scandal-writing as poor Effy,
I might have circulated a similar story about your son George. He
left England, owing me a good round sum, for which, by the way, I was
terribly 'hard up;' and alth