He tried it one day himself. He lost.... He wanted to win his money back. His pocket was empty, his groping hand only touched his tobacco-box. He snatched it away. His grandfather had kept snuff in it. He was ashamed of the idea that had occurred to him, and he thrust the box back into his pocket.
A man with thin lips asked him from the other end of the table:
“Well?”
Christopher reached again into his pocket. “I shall win it all back and never gamble again.” He drew out the box and banged it on the table. The knock roused the box. In an old-fashioned, chirping way, it sang the little song which it had learned about a hundred years ago from Ulwing the goldsmith. It sang it just in the same way but nobody paid any attention to it. When the music was over, Christopher had lost his game.
In the stifling cigar smoke his breath became heavy. Voices. Sickly, wine-reeking heat. A long grey hand removed the snuff-box from the table.
Christopher rose. He just heard someone say behind his back: “He plays like a gentleman.” He passed wearily beside the tables. He seemed indifferent. Only in the street did he realise what had happened and his heart shrank with the anguish of deep sorrow. Was he sorry for himself or for the loss of the tobacco-box? He didn’t know. It had belonged to his grandfather and now a stranger owned it.... How often had he seen it in those bony old hands, which had been raised for a blessing when they were stretched towards him in the hour of death.
He shuddered with torture and fear. “I am a scoundrel”; he repeated this several times so as to shame himself. Then he made a solemn vow that he would never touch cards any more. Never, never, again.... This calmed him to some extent.
When he drew out his new leather case next day, he noticed that Anne followed him with her eyes. He observed this several times. Impatient anger rose in him.
His father left the room. Anne turned to him.
“Have you lost it?”