‘There’s Wycherley—there he is,’ said Crotty, taking me by the arm as he spoke, and leading me forward. ‘Do me the favour to give me your name; I should like you to know Wycherley’—and scarcely had I pronounced it, when I found myself exchanging greetings with a large, well-built, black-whiskered and moustached man of about forty. He was dressed in deep mourning, and looked in his manner and air very much the gentleman.
‘Have you got up the party yet, Crotty?’ said he, after our first salutations were over, and with a half-glance towards me.
‘No, indeed,’ said Crotty slowly; ‘the fact is, I wasn’t thinking of it. There’s a poor young fellow yonder losing very heavily, and I wanted to see if you knew him; it would be only fair to——’
‘So it would; where is he?’ interrupted the baronet, as he pushed through the crowd towards the play-room.
‘I told you he was a trump,’ said Crotty, as we followed him—‘the fellow to do a good-natured thing at any moment.
While we endeavoured to get through after him, we passed close beside a small supper-table, where sat the alderman and his two pretty daughters, the Honourable Jack between them. It was evident from his boisterous gaiety that he had triumphed over all his fears of detection by any of the numerous fair ones he spoke of—his great object at this instant appearing to be the desire to attract every one’s attention towards him, and to publish his triumph to all beholders. For this, Jack conversed in a voice audible at some distance off, surveying his victims from time to time with the look of the Great Mogul; while they, poor girls, only imagined themselves regarded for their own attractions, which were very considerable, and believed that the companionship of the distinguished Jack was the envy of every woman about them. As for the father, he was deep in the mysteries of a vol-au-vent, and perfectly indifferent to such insignificant trifles as Jack’s blandishments and the ladies’ blushes.
Poor girls! no persuasion in life could have induced them to such an exhibition in their own country, and in company with one their equal in class. But the fact of its being Germany, and the escort being an Honourable, made all the difference in the world; and they who would have hesitated with maiden coyness at the honourable proposals of one of their own class, felt no scruple at compromising themselves before hundreds, to indulge the miserable vanity of a contemptible coxcomb. I stood for a second or two beside the table, and thought within myself, ‘Is not this as much a case to call for the interference of friendly caution as that of the gambler yonder?’ But then, how was it possible?
We passed on and reached the play-table, where we found Sir Harry Wycherley in low and earnest conversation with the young gentleman. I could only catch a stray expression here and there, but even they surprised me—the arguments advanced to deter him from gambling being founded on the inconsiderate plan of his game, rather than on the immorality and vice of the practice itself.
‘Don’t you see,’ said Sir Harry, throwing his eye over the card all dotted with pinholes—‘don’t you see it’s a run, a dead run; that you may bet on red, if you like, a dozen times, and only win once or twice?’ The youth blushed and said nothing.
‘I ‘ve seen forty thousand francs lost that way in less than an hour.’