"I'll take the odds against Caravan." "In poneys?" "Done." And Lord Milford, a young noble, entered in his book the bet which he had just made with Mr Latour, a grey headed member of the Jockey Club. It was the eve of the Derby of 1837. In a vast and golden saloon, that in its decorations would have become, and in its splendour would not have disgraced, Versailles in the days of the grand monarch, were assembled many whose hearts beat at the thought of the morrow, and whose brains still laboured to control its fortunes to their advantage. "They say that Caravan looks puffy," lisped in a low voice a young man, lounging on the edge of a buhl table that had once belonged to a Mortemart, and dangling a rich cane with affected indifference in order to conceal his anxiety from all, except the person whom he addressed. "They are taking seven to two against him freely over the way," was the reply. "I believe it's all right." "Do you know I dreamed last night something about Mango," continued the gentleman with the cane, and with a look of uneasy superstition. His companion shook his head. "Well," continued the gentleman with the cane, "I have no opinion of him. I gave Charles Egremont the odds against Mango this morning; he goes with us, you know. By the bye, who is our fourth?" "I thought of Milford," was the reply in an under tone. "What say you?" "Milford is going with St James and Punch Hughes."