“Would that it were at the expense of some one I love less!”
“Answer my question,” said Davis, angrily. “Will you have a hundred and fifty on the last game,—yes or no?”
“Yes, of course, Kit, if you desire it.”
“Cut again; there is a faced card,” said Davis. And now he dealt with a slow deliberation that showed what an effort his forced composure was costing him.
Classon sat back in his chair watching the cards as they fell from the dealer's hand, but affecting in his half-closed eyes and folded arms the air of one deep in his own musings.
“I will say this, Davis,” said he, at last, with the slow utterance that announces a well-matured thought, “you have managed the whole of this business with consummate skill; you have done it admirably.”
“I believe I have,” said Davis, with a sort of stern decision in his tone; “and there was more difficulty in the case than you are aware of.”
“There must have been very considerable difficulty,” rejoined Paul, slowly. “Even in the very little I have seen of him I can detect a man whose temperament must have presented the greatest embarrassments. He is proud, very proud, suspectful to any extent. I have five cards—forty-seven.”
“Not good.”
“Three queens.”