Helen was only too glad to divert the conversation, but much to their astonishment she declined their assistance, saying, as she held a pink palm across the table: “Reginald is the richest of you all; he has made a fortune, and he is the proper person to pay my gambling debts.”
With a look of unqualified amazement he divided his heap of counters into two portions, and without a single remark pushed one of them towards Alice. In doing so she observed for the first time a deep scar across his wrist.
“What is that dreadful cut, Reginald?” she asked timidly.
“Nothing,” he replied shortly, pulling down his shirt-cuff and rapidly dealing out the cards.
“One of his many honourable scars,” explained Geoffrey. “It’s an uncommonly deep sabre cut he got that time he took the standard, and only——”
“Never mind standards and scratches, but go on with the game,” interrupted Reginald with a tinge of asperity in his tone; “it’s you to lead, Geoffrey.”
“I say, Rex,” returned Geoffrey, as if struck by a happy thought as he leisurely sorted his hand, “wouldn’t it be fun if you were to give a lecture, a public lecture, on the Afghan war, say in the Assembly Room at Manister? It would fill like mad, and you might send the proceeds——”
“To an asylum for idiots,” interrupted Sir Reginald impatiently. “Will you play or not, Geoffrey?”
“I’ll play, of course!” returned that youth tranquilly, “but why should we not temper cards with conversation? Here”—nodding towards Alice—“I play the Queen of Hearts!”