"Morrice," said Elmscott at my elbow, and I started like one waked from his sleep, "we'll go saddle your horse."
And he laughed to himself again as though savouring a jest. He slipped an arm through mine and walked to the door.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said. "Marston, au revoir!" And with a twirl of his hat, he stepped into the outer room. His servant was sleeping upon a bench, and he woke him up and bade him fetch the money and follow home.
The morning was cold, and we set off at a brisk pace towards Monmouth Square, Elmscott chatting loudly the while, with ever and again, I thought, a covert laugh at me.
I only pressed on the harder. It was not merely that I was vexed by his quizzing demeanour; but the moment I was free from that tawdry hell, and began to breathe fresh air in place of the heavy reek of perfumes and wine, the fulness of my disloyalty rolled in upon my conscience, so that Elmscott's idle talk made me sicken with repulsion; for he babbled ever about cards and dice and the feminine caprice of luck.
"What ails you, Morrice?" at length he inquired, seeing that I had no stomach for his mirth. "You look as spiritless as a Quaker."
"I was thinking," I replied, in some irritation, for he clapped me on the back as he spoke, "that it must be sorely humiliating for a man of your age either to win money or lose it when you have a mere stripling to oppose you."
"A man of my age, indeed!" he exclaimed. "And what age do you take to be mine, Mr. Buckler?"
He turned his face angrily towards me, and I scanned it with great deliberation.
"It would not be fair," I answered, with a shake of the head. "It would not be fair for me to hazard a guess. Two nights at play may well stamp middle-age upon youth, and decrepitude upon middle-age."