"A sight well worth sinning for, Season," he said, with a nod at the piles of gold and paper scattered about the board.
Geoffrey nodded in idle agreement. The wealth displayed represented thousands of pounds. June kissed his cheek.
"Yet with all that wealth there is actual starvation not an eighth of a mile from here," he said in obedience to her kiss, her command.
The poseur turned and stared. He gaped with surprise.
"Good Lord, Season! You ought to be a curate."
"It is, unfortunately, only the truth."
"Perhaps so. Why not? Anyhow, it's no good talkin' about it. People who starve have only themselves to blame. Haven't they hands to work? Show me a poor man, and you'll point to a fool. That's truth, too, if it isn't an epigram! Everyone with wits can get a good living if he likes. And if not--well, let those who can't get take; that's my motto. I'm no high-priest of ordinary morality, I can tell you. But--look, Sir Gussie's won again! George! the luck of that fellow! Let me come; I must put a yellow boy on impair."
The yellow boy was not at once put on, for a climax had come. A charge of cheating was shrieked out by an excited woman playing bridge. Chaos came again. Men and women sprang to their feet to look, and crowded to the centre of trouble. There were words of eager accusation, of fierce denial, of hot anger. A table was overturned. Gold tinkled to the floor. Two women--those chiefly concerned--had almost passed beyond words. It seemed, so agitated were they, and so fierce their looks as they glared at each other, as if they would actually be fighting; but cooler counsels urgently intervened, and the disputants were led away, each grasping her stakes or winnings, each still making angry assertions. For a little while the inherent vulgarity of the company had violently broken out; it had set at defiance the thin varnish of conventional politeness most of them wore.
Geoffrey turned, and pushed his way out of the room, out of the house.
A cold breeze blew on his forehead. The stars were shining.