The Devil's back-parlor—a bachelor's room.
Milyard.
While Cashel continued his way homeward, a very joyous party had assembled in Lord Charles Frobisher's room, who were endeavoring, by the united merits of cigars, écarté, hazard, and an excellent supper, of which they partook at intervals, to compensate themselves for the unusual dulness of the drawing-room. It is well known how often the least entertaining individuals in general society become the most loquacious members of a party assembled in this fashion. The restraints which had held them in check before are no longer present; their loud speech and empty laughter are not any longer under ban, and they are tolerated by better men, pretty much as children are endured, because at least they are natural.
At a round table in the middle of the room were a group engaged at hazard. Upton was deep in écarté with his brother officer, Jennings, while Frobisher lounged about, sipping weak negus, and making his bets at either table as fancy or fortune suggested. The supper-table had few votaries; none, indeed, were seated at it save Meek, who, with a newspaper on his knee, seemed singularly out of place in the noisy gathering.
“Eleven's the nick—eleven! I say, Charley, have at you for a pony,” called out a boyish-looking dragoon, from the middle table.
“You're under age, young gentleman,” said Frobisher; “I can't afford to bet with you. Wait a moment, Upton, I 'll back you this time. Twenty sovereigns—will you have it?”
“Done!” said Jennings, and the game began.
“The King,” cried Upton; “I propose.”
“To which of them?” said a sharp-looking infantry captain, behind his chair.
“Olivia, of course,” slipped in Jennings.
“I 'd give fifty pounds to know if they have the money people say,” cried Upton.