"Very well; so be it," he said. The dice were brought; he rattled them vigorously, and flung them down.
"Four!" cried one of the gentlemen.
"Damn!" said my cousin, and he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. His antagonist picked up the dice with inimitable nonchalance, barely shook them in the cup, and let them roll idly out on to the table.
"Three!"
Elmscott heaved a sigh of relief. The other stretched his arms above his head and yawned.
"'Tis a noble house, your house in Monmouth Square," he remarked.
At the second throw, Elmscott discovered a most nervous anxiety. He held the cup so long in his hand that I feared he would lose the courage to complete the game. I felt, in truth, a personal shame at his indecision, and I gazed around with the full expectation of seeing a like feeling expressed upon the features of those who watched. But they wore one common look of strained expectancy. At last Elmscott threw.
"Nine!" cried one, and a low murmur of voices buzzed for an instant and suddenly ceased as the other took up the dice.
"Two!"
Both players rose as with one motion. Elmscott tossed down his throat the brandy in his tumbler--it had stood by his side untasted since the early part of the night--and then turned to me with an almost hysterical outburst.