'You had her for one hundred and sixty pounds. Now, if you were on your oath, what is she worth?'
'She suits me, Major, and of course I shouldn't sell her.'
'I rather think not. I knew what that mare was well enough. A dealer would have had three hundred and fifty pounds for her. I could have got the money easily if I had taken her down into the shires, and ridden her a day or two myself.'
'I gave you what you asked.'
'Yes, you did. It isn't often that I take less than I ask. But the fact is, about horses. I don't know whether I shouldn't do better if I never owned an animal at all but those I want for my own use.
When I am dealing with a man I call a friend, I can't bear to make money of him. I don't think fellows give me all the credit they should do for sticking to them.' The Major, as he said this, leaned back in his chair, put his hand up to his mustache, and looked sadly away into the vacancy of the room, as though he were meditating sorrowfully on the ingratitude of the world.
'I suppose it's all right about Cream Cheese?' asked the Lord.
'Well; it ought to be.' And now the Major spoke like an oracle, leaning forward on the table, uttering his words in a low voice, but very plainly, so that not a syllable might be lost. 'When you remember how he ran at the Craven with 9st 12lb on him, that it took Archbishop all he knew to beat him with only 9st 2lb, and what the lot at Chester are likely to be, I don't think that there can be seven to one against him. I should be very glad to take it off your hands, only the figures are a little too heavy for me.'
'I suppose Sunflower'll be the best animal there?'
'Not a doubt of it, if he's all right, and if his temper will stand. Think what a course Chester is for an ill-conditioned brute like that! And then he's the most uncertain horse in training.
There are times he won't feed. From what I hear, I shouldn't wonder if he don't turn up at all.'
'Solomon says he's all right.'
'You won't get Solomon to take four to one against him, nor yet four and a half. I suppose you'll go down my Lord?'
'Well, yes; if there's nothing else doing just then. I don't know how it may be about this electioneering business. I shall go and smoke upstairs.'
At the Beargarden there were,--I was going to say, two smoking-rooms; but in truth the house was a smoking-room all over. It was, however, the custom of those who habitually played cards, to have their cigars and coffee upstairs. Into this sanctum Major Tifto had not yet been introduced, but now he was taken there under Lord Silverbridge's wing. There were already four or five assembled, among whom was Mr Adolphus Longstaff, a young man of about thirty-five years of age, who spent very much of his time at the Beargarden. 'Do you know my friend Tifto?' said the Lord. 'Tifto, this is Mr Longstaff, whom men within the walls of this asylum sometimes call Dolly.' Whereupon the Major bowed and smiled graciously.
'I have heard of Major Tifto,' said Dolly.
'Who has not?' said Lord Nidderdale, another middle-aged young man, who made one of the company. Again the Major bowed.
'Last season I was always intending to get down to your country and have a day with the Tiftoes,' said Dolly. 'Don't they call your hounds the Tiftoes?'
'They shall be called so if you like,' said the Major. 'And why didn't you come?'
'It always was such a grind.'
'Train down from Paddington every day at 10.30.'
'That's all very well if you happen to be up. Well, Silverbridge, how's the Prime Minister?'
'How is he, Tifto?' asked the noble partner.
'I don't think there's a man in England just at present enjoying a very much better state of health,' said the Major pleasantly.
'Safe to run?' asked Dolly.
'Safe to run! Why shouldn't he be safe to run?'
'I means sure to start.'
'I think we mean him to start, don't we, Silverbridge?' said the Major.
There was something perhaps in the tone in which the last remark was made which jarred a little against the young lord's dignity.
At any rate he got up and declared his purpose of going to the opera. He should look in, he said, and hear a song from Mademoiselle Stuffa. Mademoiselle Stuffa was the nightingale of the season, and Lord Silverbridge, when he had nothing else to do, would sometimes think that he was fond of music. Soon after he was gone Major Tifto had some whisky-and-water, lit his third cigar, and began to feel the glory of belonging to the Beargarden. With Lord Silverbridge, to whom it was essentially necessary that he should make himself agreeable at all times, he was somewhat overweighted as it were. Though he attempted an easy familiarity, he was a little afraid of Lord Silverbridge. With Dolly Longstaff he felt that he might be comfortable,--not, perhaps, understanding that gentleman's character. With Lord Nidderdale he had previously been acquainted, and had found him to be good-natured. So he sipped his whisky, he became confidential and comfortable.
'I never thought so much about her good looks,' he said. They were talking of the singer, the charm of whose voice had carried Lord Silverbridge away.
'Did you ever see her off the stage?' asked Nidderdale.
'Oh dear yes.'
'She does not go about very much, I fancy,' said someone.
'I dare say not,' said Tifto. 'But she and I have had a day or two together, for all that.'
'You must have been very much favoured,' said Dolly.
'We've been pals ever since she has been over here,' said Tifto, with an enormous lie.
'How do you get on with her husband?' asked Dolly,--in the ******st voice, as though not in the least surprised at his companion's statement.
'Husband!' exclaimed the Major; who was not possessed of sufficient presence of mind to suppress all signs of ignorance.
'Ah,' said Dolly; 'you are not probably aware that your pal has been married to Mr Thomas Jones for the last year and a half.'
Soon after that Major Tifto left the club,--with considerable enhanced respect for Mr Longstaff.