The field has become very select now; still what do remain in the chase go well.
The excitement is intense; men are gnawing their lips and nails; ladies are quivering with emotion and biting the tips of their delicate-coloured gloves.
Wild and staring eyes are everywhere. Men eagerly grasp each other by the arm with a wild convulsive clutch as the horses clear each obstacle. Some stand stony and immovable, without the slightest appearance of interest. Little is known of the fearful beatings of their hearts under that cold, calm exterior.
"Here they come!" said the crowd, as some eight or ten horses make the turn for home.
"Guardsman baked!" shouts the ring, as the horse is seen nearly last.
"The Irish horse wins for a thousand," shouts an over-excited speculator.
"Done," says the sly-looking little man, and again the metallics are at work.
Lord Plunger looks on with a calm indifferent demeanour.
"By G—, Plunger," said one of George's old messmates, with a scared countenance, "Bradon is done. We shall all drop finely."
"Wait!" was the quiet answer.