'For Heaven's sake don't begin lecturing,' says Dalrymple, 'it doesn't suit you, and how in the name of fortune could the heat come from my racing. Chubby, you're an ass!' and really, J. Dalrymple of the Guards is not far wrong, for the said Chubby, otherwise Lord Helmdon does look rather foolish half leaning half sitting on the back of a chair, his hat well at the back of his head (why it remains there is a mystery), his reddish hair very dishevelled, his face on a broad grin while he watches with deep interest two dogs fighting in the street below.
Dalrymple receiving no answer to his complimentary speech, gives vent to a yawn, and sends for a brandy and soda.
'Eh what!' says Chubby, suddenly, and à propos of nothing; by this time the dogs have been separated. 'Didn't you speak just now?'
'Well, yes,' replies Dalrymple, 'I merely observed that you were an ass.'
'Thanks, awfully, but why did it strike you just now?' asks Lord Helmdon, sweetly.
'Don't know, I'm sure—'
'Ah! I thought so, but look here, why are you so down in the mouth, there's something up I'm sure,' and Chubby scrutinises his friend gravely.
'Nothing's up,' says Jimmy, 'but I've got into a confounded business with Harkness over that mare of his, that ought to have run in the Oaks, I've laid more than I've got, against her winning the Ledger, and I don't know what on earth to do—'
'Do nothing,' says Helmdon, 'it'll all shake down somehow, and the Ledger's weeks off—'
Jimmy grunts an assent, and then rising says, 'I'm off to tea at Brook Street and the Park afterwards.'