"You're too witty to-day, Mr. Greatorex,"
sneered Burgoyne.

"Then he's so offensively rich! Why, he put
down a thousand yesterday for "Willis's subscription.
There's his name at the head of the list.
Makes us look rather small—eh?"

"Confound his assurance!" broke out Brandon.
"He's not been here much more than a
week. What's Willis to him, that he should
give more than the oldest members of the club?"

"Well, it's a munificent donation," said the
Guardsman, good naturedly.

"Munificent? Hang his munificence! I
suppose the members of the Erectheum can
pension off a secretary, who has served them for
fifteen years, without the help of a thousand
pounds from a puppy like that!"

"Your virtuous indignation, Brandon, is
quite refreshing," said Burgoyne. " How long
have you been here, for instance? Half a year?"

"It was in bad taste, anyhow," said Greatorex;
"deuced bad taste. It's always the way with
your nouveaux riches. A man who had been
wealthy all his life would have known better."

"Yourself, par exemple," retorted the Guardsman,
insolently.

"Just so, Sir Charles; but then I'm to the
money-market born, so hardly a case in point."

"Where did this Trefalden get his fortune?"
asked Brandon. "I've heard that some fellow
left it to him a hundred years ago, and that it
has been accumulating ever since; but that's
nonsense, of course."

"Sounds like a pecuniary version of the Sleeping
Beauty," observed the baronet,
parenthetically.

"I know no more than you do, Mr. Brandon,"
replied Greatorex. "I have heard only the
common story of how this money has been lying
at compound interest for a century or more, and
has devolved to our pre-Adamite friend at last,
bringing him as many millions as he has fingers.
Some say double that sum; but ten are enough
for my credulity."

"Does he bank with Sir Samuel?" asked
Brandon.

"No. Our shop lies too far east for him, I
suspect. He has taken his millions to
Drummond's. By the way, Sir Charles, what have
you decided upon doing with that brown mare
of yours? You seemed half inclined to part from
her a few days ago."

"You mean the Lady of Lyons?"

"I do."

"Sold her, Mr. Greatorex."

"Sold her, Sir Charles?"

"Yes—cab and all."

The banker turned very red, and bit his lip.

"Would it be a liberty to ask the name of the
purchaser?" said he.

"Perhaps it would," replied the Guardsman.
"But I don't mind telling you. It's Mr.
Trefalden."

"Trefalden! Then, upon my soul, Sir Charles,
it's too bad! I'm sorry to hear it. I am
indeed. I had hoped—in fact, I had expected
—upon my soul, I had expected, Sir Charles,
that you would have given me the opportunity.
Money would have been no object. I would
have given a fancy price for that mare with
pleasure."

"Thank you, I did not want a fancy price,"
replied the Guardsman, haughtily.

"Besides, if you'll excuse me, Sir Charles, I
must say I don't think it was quite fair either."

"Fair?" echoed Burgoyne. "Really, Mr.
Greatorex, I do not apprehend your meaning."

"Well, you know, Sir Charles, I spoke first;
and as for Crœsus Trefalden, who scarcely knows
a horse from a buffalo . . . ."

"Mr. Saxon Trefalden is the friend of Lord
Castletowers," interrupted Burgoyne, still more
haughtily, "and I was very happy to oblige him."

If Sir Charles Burgoyne had not been a baronet,
a guardsman, and a member of the Erectheum
Club, it is possible that Mr. Greatorex of
Lombard-street would have given him the
retort uncourteous; but as matters stood, he
only grew a little redder; looked at his watch
in some confusion; and prudently swallowed his
annoyance.

"Oh, of course—in that case," stammered he
—"Lord Castletowers being your friend, I
have nothing more to say. Do you go down to
his place in Surrey next week, by-the-by?"

"Do you?" said Burgoyne, smoothing his
flaxen moustache, and looking down at the small
City man with half-closed eyes.

"I hope so, since his lordship has been kind
enough to invite me; but we are so deucedly
busy in Lombard-street just now that . . . .
pshaw! twelve o'clock already, and I am due in
the City at twenty minutes past. Not a moment
to lose. 'I know a bank,' et cætera—but there's
no wild time there for anybody between twelve
and three! Good morning, Mr. Brandon. Good
morning, Sir Charles."

The baronet bent his head about a quarter of
an inch, and almost before the other was out
of hearing, said:

"That man is bourgeois to the tips of his
fingers, and insufferably familiar. Why do you
tolerate him, Brandon?"

"Oh, he's not a bad fellow," replied Brandon.

"He's a snob, pur et simple—a snob, with the
wardrobe of a tailor's assistant, and the manners
of a valet. You called young Trefalden a snob
just now, and I told you it was a mistake. Apply
the title to this little money-jobber, and I won't
contradict you. The fact is, Brandon, I abominate
him. I wish it was possible to blackball
him out of the club. If I'd been in town when
he was proposed, I'll be hanged if he should have
ever got in. I can't think what you fellows
were about, to admit him!"

Charley Burgoyne was a lazy man; for him
this was a very long and energetic speech. But
the Honourable Edward Brandon only shook his
head in a helpless, irritable way, and repeated
his former assertion.