"Bob, I believe you are worsted, and you deserve it. All was smooth. Fortune had fallen in love with you. She had decreed you the first prize in her wheel--twenty thousand pounds; she only required that you should hold your hand out and take it. And what did you do? You called for a horse and rode a-hunting to Warwickshire. Your sweetheart--Fortune, I mean--was perfectly indulgent. She said, 'I'll excuse him; he's young.' She waited, like 'Patience on a monument,' till the chase was over and the vermin-prey run down. She expected you would come back then, and be a good lad. 
"Bob, I believe you are worsted, and you deserve it. Fortune offered you twenty thousand pounds; you only had to hold out your hand and take it. And what did you do? You called for a horse and rode to Warwickshire. Yet Fortune waited for you. 