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“It is n’t a very hard life, when all’s said and done,” he thought, as he looked at a group of mares and foals, who, in their eccentric diversions, were performing a species of Sir Roger de Coverly up and down the meadow. “It is n’t a very hard life; for as long as a fellow swears hard and fast at the lads, and gets rid of plenty of oats, he’s right enough. These country gentlemen always judge a man’s merits by the quantity of corn they have to pay for. Feed their horses as fat as pigs, and never enter ’em except among such a set of screws as an active pig could beat, and they’ll swear by you. They’d think more of having a horse win the Margate plate, or the Hampstead Heath sweepstakes, than if he ran a good fourth in the Derby. Bless their innocent hearts! I should think fellows with plenty of money and no brains must have been invented for the good of fellows with plenty of brains and no money; and that’s how we contrive to keep our equilibrium in the universal see-saw.” Mr. James Conyers, puffing lazy clouds of transparent blue smoke from his lips, and pondering thus, looked as sentimental as if he had been ruminating upon the last three pages of the Bride of Abydos, or the death of Paul Dombey. He had that romantic style of beauty peculiar to dark blue eyes and long black lashes, and he could not wonder what he should have for dinner without a dreamy pensiveness in the purple shadows of those deep blue orbs. He had found the sentimentality of his beauty almost of greater use to him than the beauty itself.