Chapter 190: Stable Invitation

The night passed without incident; the world does not harbor so many conspiracies linked together.

Do not be fooled: though Paul Mellon is the direct heir of the family, in truth the great power of the Mellon family rests in the hands of his cousin, Richard Mellon.

Paul is devoted to art and horse breeding; the most serious work he undertook was the founding and expansion of the National Gallery of Art in Washington. He is a complete carefree idler. His wealth has long ensured he need not worry about food or clothing, so naturally he has no need to play the game of sharpening knives at midnight after guests arrive.

Henry rose early, washed, and then wandered in the courtyard. Had there been many valuables inside the house, he would not have dared to wander about without the host's guidance. It would be bad to be misunderstood as having smashed or stolen something.

But the courtyard was less of a concern; Rachel Lambert was not so mad as to decorate her garden with pearls and gemstones. Basically, as long as Henry did not wield large shears to cause destruction, no one would pay him any mind.

In theory, it should be so...

Yet early that morning, he was caught red-handed by old-money Paul Mellon. "Henry Brown?"

"Yes, Mr. Mellon. Good morning." Although he did not know why he had been summoned, Henry politely offered his greeting.

"Do you like horses? Are you interested in visiting my stable? It is far more photogenic than these flowers and plants."

Heh, if you recorded those words and played them before your wife, it would be the prelude to a major battle. Is it really necessary to be so blunt?

However, Henry did not voice his inner complaints; instead, he smiled and said, "My knowledge of horses extends only to television and books. If I could see them with my own eyes, that would be an immense honor."

"Heh, then walk with me, young man."

Seeing the white-haired elder beckon, Henry also wished to see what this old-money figure, famous for horse breeding, looked like at his breeding base. So he happily followed along.

The stable was not far from the farm. The group, including Paul Mellon's attendants, arrived in an electric cart much like a golf cart.

Thoroughbreds, used specifically for horse racing and equestrian events, were a breed developed in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries when the British imported Arabian horses and crossbred them with local horses.

To speak truly, they are not at all "pure." The meaning of so-called "purebred" in other animal species is vastly different; the "Thoroughbred" itself can be regarded as a breed.

The characteristics of high-quality Thoroughbreds are a refined head, a long neck, a tall body, a deep chest, a short back, powerful hind legs, a slender frame, and long legs.

These traits formed the stereotype modern people hold regarding horses. So much so that when seeing other horse breeds, particularly pony breeds, one almost mistakes them for a different creature.

The reason Thoroughbreds originating from Britain could sweep the world lies in the promotion of horse racing, and horse racing can bring considerable profit.

Especially the latter is what caused ranches worldwide capable of breeding horses to devote themselves to producing faster, superior Thoroughbreds. Thus, a new era of horse breeding theory emerged.

Just as when discussing gardening yesterday, Lady Rachel Lambert spoke as if she could go on for three days and three nights without end, able to talk endlessly.

Regarding various carefully designed things, aside from Givenchy, this fashion giant who could grasp them immediately, the other two men did not possess such keen sensitivity.

Even though Henry tried hard to follow their train of thought, he still lagged a beat behind in understanding. His super brain seemed to have crashed, functioning no longer.

When discussing horse breeding theory, Paul Mellon showed the same enthusiasm. Not only did he list the strengths of every horse, but he could also recall the paternal lineage, maternal lineage, and career achievements of every single horse with perfect clarity.

It was as if he possessed a super memory, storing all the data within his mind.

Regarding such a display, Henry could only sigh that the potential people have for things they love is limitless.

Henry certainly held no aversion to horses. Had it been a hundred or eighty years earlier, this place would have been equivalent to a luxury car showroom. Each one was a high-quality, classic, limited-edition sports car, the kind that could accelerate from zero to one hundred in just a few seconds.

Walking forward, as they approached the horse training ground, Paul Mellon spoke enthusiastically: "Come, Henry, come see the horse I favor most—Sea Hero."

It was a chestnut horse with a graceful figure, trotting in circles on the training ground according to the trainer's instructions.

Paul Mellon, of course, launched into a string of pedigree and record explanations that sounded like gibberish. The feeling was just like his pre-transmigration self, who, when discussing games with his few friends, always loved to bring out the statistics and chatter on.

Only in the real world is it difficult to quantify the capabilities of a racehorse. The only things people can bring up for discussion are the racehorse's achievements and the achievements of its paternal and maternal lineages.

Henry always gave appropriate reactions at just the right moments. Pity he could not ride a horse and experience the joy of galloping.

But thinking about it, it was quite normal; he had already stated he had no riding experience. For someone who loved horses as much as life itself, how could they possibly let such a person ruin their prized horses? Just looking was already generous.

In fact, regarding Paul Mellon's so enthusiastic attitude, Henry was somewhat puzzled. Although this was something the other party loved, one could not help but find an audience to show off to. But what merit did he possess?

If it were merely listening to this old man chatter about horse breeding theory, Henry believed he could find someone from their same circle every day, rotating them. Perhaps by the time the old man reached his century mark, he still would not have finished the list.

Moreover, these people could certainly offer more elaborate flattery, making the old man's heart bloom with joy all day long.

Was it necessary to find a young man with no background and no power—here referring, of course, to wealth or authority—to chat about these things?

Drinking the black tea served by the attendants to soothe his dry mouth and throat, Paul Mellon suddenly said, "Henry, are you interested in working for my company?"

In that instant, Henry understood. It was likely that the abilities he displayed when applying for Lady He Ben's assistant position had circulated on a small scale from the mouth of that big shot, Alex Hart.

Henry could hardly think of a second possibility that would make the big shot, who had been very cold yesterday, suddenly quite enthusiastic today. Furthermore, this meant that within just one night, his information had been investigated by the other party. He did not know how much they had learned.

Henry smiled, pointing to the attendants following behind this big shot, who vaguely possessed mutant characteristics, and said, "Mr. Mellon's staff is full of talents; how could he take a liking to someone with skills that could be replaced by buying a few bulletproof briefcases?"

"I know that people like you need respect and protection, allowing you to live a life like ordinary people. What I need is protection. This is a win-win exchange, is it not?"

Looking at those attendants with mutant abilities, each strutting with an air of arrogance, it truly confirmed that saying: "A seventh-rank official at the prime minister's gate."

Henry helplessly smiled bitterly and said, "Mr. Mellon, I am currently Lady Audrey He Ben's assistant. Moreover, this is precisely when the Lady needs manpower."

"I understand." Paul Mellon took out a pure black business card stamped with gold lettering, handed it over, and said, "So when you feel the timing is right and wish to find a new job, come find me."

It seemed his life was not under threat, so he was not urgently seeking someone to block bullets. Was it simply an outbreak of his collecting obsession?

Henry accepted the business card and said, "I understand. I hope there will be a day in the future when I can serve Mr. Mellon."

Actual inner monologue: Power and nobility, keep your distance.

Since the big shot had given him a way to step down gracefully, he should not be so tactless as to dismantle the stage and leave himself with no way down. But seriously, Henry truly did not wish to be kept by anyone; such a life would be too boring.

Just like the horses in the stable before his eyes. No matter how fast they ran, they could only satisfy their urge on the racetrack or training ground; how would they know how high the sky is or how vast the earth is?

(End of this chapter)