“No man wins invariably, sir, except Brooke Morris, perhaps,” replied he, always happy at the opportunity to quote the name of a man of fashion in a tone of familiarity.
“That was the Mo-Mo-Morris that ruined Hopeton, was n't it?” broke in Purvis, quite forgetting that the individual he addressed was reported to have a share in the transaction. Haggerstone, however, did not deign a reply, but puffed his cigar in perfect contempt of his questioner.
“Who is this coming up here?” said one; “he looks like a new arrival. He is English, certainly; that frock has a London cut there's no mistaking.”
“By Jove, it's Norwood!” cried Haggerstone, edging away, as he spoke, from the group. Meanwhile, the noble Viscount, a well-dressed, well-whiskered man, of about thirty, came leisurely forward, and touching his hat familiarly, said,
“Ha! you here, Haggerstone! What is Florence doing?”
“Pretty much as it always did, my Lord. I don't think its morals have improved since you knew it a few years ago.”
“Or you wouldn't be here, Haggy, eh?” said the Viscount, laughing at his own joke. “Not suit your book if it took a virtuous turn, eh?”
“I plead guilty, my Lord. I believe I do like to shoot folly as it flies.”
“Ah, yes! And I've seen you taking a sitting shot at it too, Haggy,” said the other, with a heartier laugh, which, despite of the Colonel's efforts not to feel, brought a crimson flush to his cheek.
“Is there any play going on, Haggy?”