“You shall never see me a gambler,—I mean, God helping me,” replied Charles, touched and gratified by his brother’s anxiety; “I will give up play after this evening.”
“Do not go this evening; it is playing on the brink of temptation.”
“Would you have me break an engagement?”
“You can write, and make your excuse. To-morrow is Christmas day, when we should especially remember the mercy that opened to us the gate of salvation, and our duties as pilgrims and soldiers of the Cross. You would not spend this evening amongst those whom you yourself call citizens of Vanity Fair?”
“I will not write, then; I will call—it is more courteous.”
“More dangerous.”
“I see that you have little trust in me,” said Charles, but without any emotion of anger. “Perhaps, Ernest, you know me better than I do myself: but I think that in this case I only do right to go; therefore it is not wilfully throwing myself into temptation.”
Charles found Aleck Fitzwigram at the house of Leo Chamberlain, his friend, and after shaking hands with them both, told them that he had come to say that circumstances would prevent his joining them that evening.
“Then you’ll come to-morrow—no, we dine out then, and the day after there’s the theatre; but on Saturday, at any rate, we shall expect you here; you know that you must give us our revenge.”
Charles took the piece of gold out of his waistcoat pocket, and laid it upon the table. “You will need no revenge,” said he, smiling.