It was said that the town of Shoreham had won two thousand pounds on the
race; it was said that Mr. Leopold had won two hundred; it was said that
William Latch had won fifty; it was said that Wall, the coachman, had won
five-and-twenty; it was said that the Gaffer had won forty thousand
pounds. For ten miles around nothing was talked of but the wealth of the
Barfields, and, drawn like moths to a candle, the county came to call;
even the most distant and reserved left cards, others walked up and down
the lawn with the Gaffer, listening to his slightest word. A golden
prosperity shone upon the yellow Italian house. Carriages passed under its
elm-trees at every hour and swept round the evergreen oaks. Rumour said
that large alterations were going to be made, so that larger and grander
entertainments might be given; an Italian garden was spoken of,
balustrades and terraces, stables were in course of construction, many
more race-horses were bought; they arrived daily, and the slender
creatures, their dark eyes glancing out of the sight holes in their cloth
hoods, walked up from the station followed by an admiring and commenting
crowd. Drink and expensive living, dancing and singing upstairs and
downstairs, and the jollifications culminated in a servants' ball given at
the Shoreham Gardens.
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