Gladiateur is not to run!
Is this, then, the old Britannic chivalry—the love of what the poet has proudly called “Greenwich Fair-Play”? Is this the entente cordiale? I survey Lord Ouiggins. He can scarcely meet my eye. He turns aside.
Let us hope it is to blush!
He tries to defend the invidious exclusion. He pretends that in the Derby-Course the horses must not exceed a certain age; also that Gladiateur was at least quite sufficiently near that age when he did run. Puerile evasion! False pride of nationality!
What is to become of the money I have wagered?
Lord Ouiggins tells me to console myself. He has private information. He will not see a foreign gentleman wronged.
X. Les Nuits de Londres.
We are inseparable.
Milord has backed a favourite to win him thousands of sterlings.
Curious, almost cynical nomenclature of the Turf!