“What, are you at that again? I still have them, and they will still beat any of the cattle you own.”
“I don’t think so,” said Sir James, taking snuff with an elegant turn of his wrist.
“I wouldn’t bet against them,” said a man in a puce coat, and a tie-wig. “I’d buy them, if you’d sell, Ravenscar.” Mr Ravenscar shook his head.
“Oh, Max wins all his races!” Lord Mablethorpe declared. “He bred those greys, and I’ll swear he wouldn’t part with them for a fortune. Have they ever been beaten, Max?”
“No. Not yet.”
“They have not yet been evenly matched,” said Sir James.
“You thought they were once,” remarked Ravenscar, with a slight smile.
“Oh, admittedly!” replied Filey, with an airy gesture. “I underrated them, like so many other men.”
Mr Lucius Kennet came back into the room, and laid some bills and a number of rouleaus on the table. Miss Grantham pushed them towards Mr Ravenscar. “Your winnings, sir.”
Mr Ravenscar glanced at them indifferently, and, stretching out his hand, picked up two of the bills, and held them crushed between his fingers. “Five hundred pounds on the table, Filey,” he said. “I will engage to drive my greys against any pair you may choose to match ’em with, over any distance you care to set, upon a day to be fixed by yourself.”