"Why the"--(never mind what!)--"won't they any of them take the bet?"

"If you must be a fool," returned Arnold, a little irritably on his
side, "and if nothing else will keep you quiet, _I'll_ take the bet."

"An even hundred on the doctor!" cried Geoffrey. "Done with you!"

His highest aspirations were satisfied; his temper was in perfect order
again. He entered the bet in his book; and made his excuses to Smith and
Jones in the heartiest way. "No offense, old chaps! Shake hands!"
The two choral gentlemen were enchanted with him. "The English
aristocracy--eh, Smith?" "Blood and breeding--ah, Jones!"

As soon as he had spoken, Arnold's conscience reproached him: not for
betting (who is ashamed of _that_ form of gambling in England?) but for
"backing the doctor." With the best intention toward his friend, he was
speculating on the failure of his friend's health. He anxiously assured
Geoffrey that no man in the room could be more heartily persuaded that
the surgeon was wrong than himself. "I don't cry off from the bet,"
he said. "But, my dear fellow, pray understand that I only take it to
please _you._"

"Bother all that!" answered Geoffrey, with the steady eye to business,
which was one of the choicest virtues in his character. "A bet's a
bet--and hang your sentiment!" He drew Arnold by the arm out of ear-shot
of the others. "I say!" he asked, anxiously. "Do you think I've set the
old fogy's back up?"

"Do you mean Sir Patrick?"