Prince Fortunatus by William Black (ebook reader with highlighter TXT) 📖

have only one round more. There were then left in only Lionel and the young fellow who had won his L28 early in the evening.

"Johnny, I'll go you once for twenty pounds," Lionel said.

"Done with you."

"I say, you fellows," protested one of the bystanders, "you'll smash up this club--you'll have the police shutting it up as a gambling-hell. Besides, you're breaking the rules; you'll have the committee expelling you."

"What rules?" Lionel's opponent asked, wheeling round.

"The amount of the stakes, for one thing; and playing after three o'clock, for another," was the answer.

"I'll bet you ten pounds there's no limit as to time in the rules of this club--I mean as regards card-playing," the young man said, boldly.

"I take you."

The bell was rung; a waiter was sent to fetch a List of Members; and then he who had accepted the bet read out these solemn words:

"Rule XIX. No higher stakes than guinea points shall ever be played for, nor shall any card or billiard playing be permitted in the club after 3 A.M."

"There's your confounded money; what a fool of a club to let you stay here all night if you like, and to stop card-playing at three!" He turned to Lionel. "Well, Moore, what did you say: twenty pounds? I'll just make it thirty, if you like, and see if I can't get back that ten."

"Right with you, Johnny."

The young man dealt the two hands: he found he had a pair of fours, Lionel nothing but a king. The winner took over the loser's I.O.U. for the L30, and then said,

"Well, now, I'll go you double or quits."

"Oh, certainly," said Lionel, "if you like. But I don't think you should. You are the winner; stick to what you've got."

"Oh, I'll give you a chance to get it all back," the young man said; and this time Lionel dealt the cards. And again the latter lost--having to substitute an I.O.U. for L60 for its predecessor.

"Well, now, I'll give you one more chance," the winner said, with a laugh.

"I'm hanged if you shall, Johnny!" said one of the bystanders; and he had the courage to intervene and snatch up the cards. "Come away to your beds, boys, and stop that nonsense! You've lost enough, Moore; and this fellow would go on till Doomsday."

But that insatiate young man was not to be beaten, after all. When they were separating in the street below he drew Lionel aside.

"Look here, old man, why should we be deprived of our final little flutter? I want to give you a chance of getting back the whole thing."

"Not at all, my good fellow," Lionel said, with a smile. "Why don't you keep the money and rest content? Do you think I grudge it to you?"

"Come--an absolutely last double or quits," said the other, and he pulled out a coin from his pocket and put it between his two palms. "Heads or tails?--and then go home happy!"

"Well, since you challenge me, I'll go this once more, and this once more only. I call a tail."

The upper hand was removed: in the dull lamp-light the dusky gold coin was examined.

"It's a head," said Lionel, "so that's all right, and it's you who are to go home happy. I'll settle up with you to-morrow evening. Do you want this hansom?--I don't: I think I'd rather walk. Good-night, Johnny."

It was a long price to pay for a few hours of distraction and forgetfulness; still, he had had these; and the loss of the money, per se, did not affect him much. He walked away home. When he reached his rooms, there were some letters for him lying on the table; he took them and looked at them; he noticed one handwriting that used to be rather more familiar. This letter he opened first.

AIVRON LODGE, CAMPDEN HILL, Feb. 23.

"MY DEAR MR. MOORE,--It is really quite shocking the way you have
neglected us of late, and I, at least, cannot imagine any reason.
Perhaps we have both been in fault. My sisters and I have all been
very busy, in our several ways; and then it is awkward you should
have only the one Sunday evening free. But there, let bygones be
bygones, and come and dine with us on Sunday, March 3, at 8.
Forgive the short notice; I've had some trouble in trying to secure
one, or two people whom I don't know very well, and I couldn't fix
earlier. The fact is, I want it to be an intellectual little
dinner; and who could represent music and the drama so fitly as
yourself? I want only people with brains at it--perhaps you
wouldn't include Rockminster in that category, but I must have him
to help me, as my husband is away in Scotland looking after his
beasts. Now do be good-natured, dear Mr. Moore, and say you will
come.

"And I am going to try your goodness another way. You remember
speaking to me about a friend of yours who was connected with
newspapers, and who knew some of the London correspondents of the
provincial journals? Could you oblige me with his address and the
correct spelling of his name? I presume he would not consider it
out of the way if I wrote to him as being a friend of yours, and
enclosed a card of invitation. I want to have all the
talents--that is, all of them I can get to come and honor the
house of a mere novice and beginner. I did not catch either your
friend's surname or his Christian name.
Ever yours sincerely,
ADELA CUNYNGHAM."

He tossed the letter on to the table.

"I wonder," he said to himself, "how much of that is meant for me, and how much for Maurice Mangan and newspaper paragraphs."

But it was high time to get to bed; and that he did without any serious fretting over his losses at the Garden Club. These had amounted, on the whole gamble, to nearly L170; which might have made him pause. For did he not owe responsibilities elsewhere? If he went on at this rate (he ought to have been asking himself) whence was likely to come the money for the plenishing of a certain small household--an elegant little establishment towards which Miss Kate Burgoyne was no doubt now looking forward with pleased and expectant eyes.


CHAPTER XXI.


IN A DEN OF LIONS, AND THEREAFTER.

When Maurice Mangan, according to appointment, called at Lionel's rooms on the evening of Lady Adela Cunyngham's dinner-party, he was surprised to find his friend seated in front of the fire, wrapped up in a dressing-gown.

"Linn, what's the matter with you?" he exclaimed, looking at him. "Are you ill? What have you been doing to yourself?"

"Oh, nothing," was the answer. "I have been rather worried and out of sorts lately, that is all. And I can't go to that dinner to-night, Maurice. Will you make my excuses for me, like a good fellow? Tell Lady Adela I'm awfully sorry--"

"I'm sure I sha'n't do anything of the sort," Mangan said, promptly. "Do you think I am going to leave you here all by yourself? You know why I accepted the invitation: mere curiosity; I wanted to see you among those people--I wanted to describe to Miss Francie how you looked when you were being adored--"

"My dear chap, you would have seen nothing of the sort," Lionel said. "To-night there is to be a shining galaxy of genius, and each particular star will be eager to absorb all the adoration that is going. Authors, actors, painters, musicians--that kind of people; kid-gloved Bohemia."

"Come, Linn; rouse yourself, man," his friend protested. "You'll do no good moping here by the fire. There's still time for you to dress; I came early in case you might want to walk up to Campden Hill. And you shouldn't disappoint your friends, if this is to be so great an occasion."

"I suppose you're right," Lionel said, and he rose wearily, "though I would twenty times rather go to bed. You can find a book for yourself, Maurice; I sha'n't keep you many minutes," and with that he disappeared into his dressing-room.

A four-wheeler carried them up to Campden Hill; a welcome glow of light shone forth on the carriage-drive and the dark bushes. As they entered and crossed the wide hall, they were preceded by a young lady whose name was at the same moment announced at the door of the drawing-room--"Miss Gabrielle Grey."

"Oh, really," said Mangan to his companion, as they were leaving their coats and hats. "I always thought 'Gabrielle Grey' was the pseudonym of an elderly clergyman's widow, or somebody of that kind."

"But who is Miss Gabriel Grey?"

"You mean to say you have never even heard of her? Oh, she writes novels--very popular, too, and very deservedly so, for that kind of thing--excellent in tone, highly moral, and stuffed full of High-Church sentiment; and I can tell you this, Linn, my boy, that for a lady novelist to have plenty of High-Church sentiment at her command is about equivalent to holding four of a kind at poker--and that's an illustration you'll understand. Now come and introduce me to my hostess, and tell me who all the people are."

Lady Adela received both Lionel and his friend in the most kindly manner.

"What a charming photograph that is of you in evening dress," she said to Lionel. "Really, I've had to lock away my copy of it; girls are such thieves nowadays; they think nothing of picking up what pleases them and popping it in their pockets." And therewith Lady Adela turned to Mr. Quirk, with whom she had been talking; and the new-comers passed on, and found themselves in a corner from whence they could survey the room.

The first glance revealed to Lionel that, if all the talents were there, the "quality" was conspicuously absent.

"I know hardly anybody here," he said, in an undertone, to Mangan.

"Oh, I know some of them," was the answer, also in an undertone. "Rather small lions--I think she might have done better with proper guidance. But perhaps this is only a beginning. Isn't your friend Quirk a picture? Who is the remarkably handsome girl just beyond?"

"That's Lady Adela's sister, Lady Sybil."

"The composer? I see; that's why she's talking to that portentous old ass, Schweinkopf, the musical critic. Then there's Miss Gabrielle Grey--poor thing! she's not very pretty--'I was not good enough for man, and so am given to'--publishers. By Jove, there's Ichabod--standing by the door; don't you know him?--Egerton--but they call him Ichabod at the Garrick. Now, what could our hostess expect to get out of Ichabod? He has nothing left to him but biting his nails like the senile Pope or Pagan in the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'"

"What does he do?"

"He is a reviewer, et proeterea nihil. Some twenty years ago he wrote two or three novels, but people wouldn't look at them, and so he became morose about the public taste and modern literature. In fact, there has been no English literature--for twenty years; this is his wail and moan whenever