The Park had been empty, but the opera-house was full; and in the brilliance of the lights and divine soaring of the music, the genius of Champagne luncheons discussed the fate of the horse Templemore; some, as a matter of remote history; some, as another delusion in horse-flesh the greater number, however, with a determination to stand by the beaten favourite, though he had fallen, and proclaim him the best of racers and an animal foully mishandled on the course.  There were whispers, and hints, and assertions; now implicating the jockey, now the owner of Templemore.  The Manchester party, and the Yorkshire party, and their diverse villanous tricks, came under review.  Several offered to back Templemore at double the money they had lost, against the winner.  A favourite on whom money has been staked, not only has friends, but in adversity he is still believed in; nor could it well be otherwise, for the money, no doubt, stands for faith, or it would never have been put up to the risks of a forfeit.

Foremost and wildest among the excited young men who animated the stalls, and rushed about the lobby, was Algernon.  He was the genius of Champagne luncheon incarnate.  On him devolves, for a time, the movement of this story, and we shall do well to contemplate him, though he may seem possibly to be worthless.  What is worthless, if it be well looked at?  Nay, the most worthless creatures are most serviceable for examination, when the microscope is applied to them, as a simple study of human mechanism.  This youth is one of great Nature’s tom-fools:  an elegant young gentleman outwardly, of the very large class who are simply the engines of their appetites, and, to the philosophic eye, still run wild in woods, as did the primitive nobleman that made a noise in the earlier world.

Algernon had this day lost ten times more than he could hope to be in a position to pay within ten years, at the least, if his father continued to argue the matter against Providence, and live.  He had lost, and might speedily expect to be posted in all good betting circles as something not pleasantly odoriferous for circles where there is no betting.  Nevertheless, the youth was surcharged with gaiety.  The soul of mingled chicken and wine illumined his cheeks and eyes.  He laughed and joked about the horse—­his horse, as he called Templemore—­and meeting Lord Suckling, won five sovereigns of him by betting that the colours of one of the beaten horses, Benloo, were distinguished by a chocolate bar.  The bet was referred to a dignified umpire, who, a Frenchman, drew his right hand down an imperial tuft of hair dependent from his chin, and gave a decision in Algernon’s favour.  Lord Suckling paid the money on the spot, and Algernon pocketed it exulting.  He had the idea that it was the first start in his making head against the flood.  The next instant he could have pitched himself upon the floor and bellowed.  For, a soul of chicken and wine, lightly elated,