A wintry smile, like the sun over a March sea, crept across his face.
“We might a kent it, Wullie,” he muttered, soft and low. The tension loosed, the battle lost, the little man almost broke down. There were red dabs of color in his face; his eyes were big; his lips pitifully quivering; he was near to sobbing.
An old man—utterly alone he had staked his all on a throw—and lost.
Lady Eleanour marked the forlorn little figure, standing solitary on the fringe of the uproarious mob. She noticed the expression on his face; and her tender heart went out to the lone man in his defeat.
She went up to him and laid a hand upon his arm.
“Mr. M'Adam,” she said timidly, “won't you come and sit down in the tent? You look so tired! I can find you a corner where no one shall disturb you.”
The little man wrenched roughly away. The unexpected kindness, coming at that moment, was almost too much for him. A few paces off he turned again.
“It's reel kind o' yer ladyship,” he said huskily; and tottered away to be alone with Red Wull.
Meanwhile the victors stood like rocks in the tideway. About them surged a continually changing throng, shaking the man's hand, patting the dog.