“Nonsense!”
“By Jove, he means it! nobody's to cross the King's back; he wants weight-carriers himself, you know, and precious strong ones too. The King's put in stud at Lyonnesse. Poor Bertie! Nobody ever managed a close finish as he did at the Grand National—last but two—don't you remember?”
“Yes; waited so beautifully on Fly-by-Night, and shot by him like lightning, just before the run-in. Pity he went to the bad!”
“Ah, what a hand he played at ecarte; the very best of the French science.”
“But reckless at whist; a wild game there—uncommonly wild. Drove Cis Delareux half mad one night at Royallieu with the way he threw his trumps out. Old Cis dashed his cards down at last, and looked him full in the face. 'Beauty, do you know, or do you not know, that a whist-table is not to be taken as you take a timber in a hunting-field, on the principle of clear it or smash it?' 'Faith!' said Bertie, 'clear it or smash it is a very good rule for anything, but a trifle too energetic for me.'”
“The deuce, he's had enough of 'smashing' at last! I wish he hadn't come to grief in that style; it's a shocking bore for the Guards—such an ugly story.”
“It was uncommonly like him to get killed just when he did—best possible taste.”
“Only thing he could do.”
“Better taste would have been to do it earlier. I always wondered he stopped for the row.”
“Oh, never thought it would turn up; trusted to a fluke.”