“While the time, sir? What say you? A game or two? I can stake my pistoles—that is, sir, so far as a fourpenny bit goes. If ignorant of this French game, sir, cribbage or all fours?”
“No,” said Losely, mournfully; “there is nothing to be got out of you; otherwise”—he stopped and sighed. “But I have seen you under other circumstances. What has become of your Theatrical Exhibition? Gambled it away? Yet, from what I see of your play, I think you ought not to have lost, Mr. Rugge.”
The ex-manager started.
“What! You knew me before the Storm?—before the lightning struck me, as I may say, sir—and falling into difficulties, I became-a wreck? You knew me?—not of the Company?—a spectator?”
“As you say—a spectator. You had once in your employ an actor—clever old fellow. Waife, I think, he was called.”
“Ah! hold! At that name, sir, my wounds bleed afresh. From that execrable name, sir, there hangs a tale!”
“Indeed! Then it will be a relief to you to tell it,” said Losely, resettling his feet on the hob, and snatching at any diversion from his own reflections.
“Sir, when a gentleman, who is a gentleman, asks as a favour a specimen of my powers of recital, not professionally, and has before him the sparkling goblet, which he does not invite me to share, he insults my fallen fortunes. Sir, I am poor—I own it; I have fallen into the sere and yellow leaf, sir; but I have still in this withered bosom the heart of a Briton!”
“Warm it, Mr. Rugge. Help yourself to the brandy—and the lady too.”
“Sir, you are a gentleman; sir, your health. Hag, drink better days to us both. That woman, sir, is a hag, but she is an honour to her sex-faithful!”