“Not your old things, are they, Sir Hilton?”
“Oh, yes. Been lying by these three years. Look—creased and soiled?”
“Fresh as a daisy, Sir Hilton. Why, its like old times. Here, hang the business! It may take care of itself to-day. I’m coming to see you ride.”
The man spoke back over his shoulder, as, leaving his guest shaking himself down in the unaccustomed garb, he hurried into the office, where a pop was heard, and he returned, bearing a waiter, on which was a foaming champagne bottle and a couple of glasses.
This he placed upon a little marble table, and began to fill the glasses with trembling hands, a little in first one and then in the other, till the cream ceased to threaten flowing over, when he placed the bottle by itself and bore the waiter and its glasses towards the guest. “Hullo! What have you got there, Sam?”
“Irroy, black seal, Sir Hilton.”
“I see; but I didn’t order it.”
“No, Sir Hilton, but you won’t mind taking a glass with the old trainer—to La Sylphide, and the winning of the cup?”
“No, no, no, man. Nonsense! Very good of you, but I want a cool head and a steady hand.”
“Of course you do, Sir Hilton; but one glass o’ dry fizz! Not much harm in that, Sir Hilton. You’ll do me the honour, sir, just for luck? Tighten up your nerves, and make you win in a canter.”