He paused at the entrance, languidly surveying the room and nodding here or there to an acquaintance, noting that no one in this celebrated gentlemen’s abode presented a more elegant or composed picture. Determined that nothing in his demeanor, dress, or bearing could suggest the slightest disquiet about his circumstances, he wore an impeccably tailored coat of the finest velvet, cut to expose the rich crimson and gold silk brocade of the waistcoat beneath. French lace cascaded abundantly from his cravat and cuff, nearly concealing the hands that held his gold-laced hat and elaborately enameled snuffbox. Nevertheless, upon his appearance, an astounding domino effect prevailed. The low drone of conversation virtually ceased. One by one, every pair of eyes peeked quizzically above the newsprint, or surreptitiously sneaked up from their cards, as if he was suddenly an apparition within their midst. Precisely as he had supposed, within four-and-twenty hours all of London was buzzing with his infamous defeat on the Rowley Mile.
