"In poneys?"

"Done."

And Lord Milford, a young noble, entered in his book the bet
which he had just made with Mr Latour, a grey headed member of
the Jockey Club.

It was the eve of the Derby of 1837. In a vast and golden
saloon, that in its decorations would have become, and in its
splendour would not have disgraced, Versailles in the days of
the grand monarch, were assembled many whose hearts beat at
the thought of the morrow, and whose brains still laboured to
control its fortunes to their advantage.

"They say that Caravan looks puffy," lisped in a low voice a
young man, lounging on the edge of a buhl table that had once
belonged to a Mortemart, and dangling a rich cane with
affected indifference in order to conceal his anxiety from
all, except the person whom he addressed.

"They are taking seven to two against him freely over the
way," was the reply. "I believe it's all right."

"Do you know I dreamed last night something about Mango,"
continued the gentleman with the cane, and with a look of
uneasy superstition.

His companion shook his head.