came in first," said Lord Milford, laughing.

"How close it is to-night!" said Egremont. "Waiter, give me
some Seltzer water; and open another window; open them all."

At this moment an influx of guests intimated that the assembly
at Lady St Julian's was broken up. Many at the table rose and
yielded their places, clustering round the chimney-piece, or
forming in various groups, and discussing the great question.
Several of those who had recently entered were votaries of
Rat-trap, the favourite, and quite prepared, from all the
information that had reached them, to back their opinions
valiantly. The conversation had now become general and
animated, or rather there was a medley of voices in which
little was distinguished except the names of horses and the
amount of odds. In the midst of all this, waiters glided
about handing incomprehensible mixtures bearing aristocratic
names; mystical combinations of French wines and German
waters, flavoured with slices of Portugal fruits, and cooled
with lumps of American ice, compositions which immortalized
the creative genius of some high patrician name.

"By Jove! that's a flash," exclaimed Lord Milford, as a blaze
of lightning seemed to suffuse the chamber, and the beaming
lustres turned white and ghastly in the glare.

The thunder rolled over the building. There was a dead
silence. Was it going to rain? Was it going to pour? Was
the storm confined to the metropolis? Would it reach Epsom?
A deluge, and the course would be a quagmire, and strength