“Poor Effingdale!” said he, smiling; “he ought to spell better, considering that his mother was a governess. He writes 'naming' with an 'e.' Didn't you remark that?”
But as Sir Stafford paid no attention to the criticism, he went on:
“As to the 'Whip,' I may as well tell you, that I scratched my own name myself. They are a set of low 'Legs,' and, except poor Effy, and two or three others of the same brilliant stamp, not a gentleman amongst them.”
“The defalcation is, however, true?” asked Sir Stafford.
“If you mean to ask whether a man always wins at Doncaster or Newmarket, the question is of the easiest to answer.”
“I certainly presume that he always pays what he loses, my Lord,” replied Sir Stafford, coloring at the evasive impertinence of the other.
“Of course he does, when he has it, Sir Stafford; but that is a most essential condition, for the 'Turf' is not precisely like a mercantile pursuit.”
Sir Stafford winced under the flippant insolence with which this was spoken.
“There is not exactly a fair way to calculate profit, nor any assurance against accidental loss. A horse, Sir Stafford, is not an Indiaman; a betting man is, therefore, in a position quite exceptional.”
“If a man risks what he cannot pay, he is dishonorable,” said Sir Stafford, in a short, abrupt tone.