The words were scarcely uttered, when a deep sigh broke from the Duke—it was the first that had escaped him—and he buried his head between his hands. Rica looked over at Linton, and a slight, almost imperceptible, motion of his eyebrows signalled that the battle was nigh over.
“Well! how is the game? Am I betting?—what's the color?” said the Duke, passing his clammy hand across his brow.
“I am waiting for you, my Lord Duke,” said Rica, obsequiously.
“I am ready—quite ready,” cried the other. “Am I the only player? I fancied that some others were betting. Where's my Lord Charles?—ah! I see him. And Mr. Linton—is he gone?”
“He has just left the room, my Lord Duke. Will you excuse me if I follow him for an instant?” And at the same moment Rica arose, and left the chamber with hasty steps.
It was at the end of a long corridor, tapping gently at a door, Linton stood, as Rica came up.
“What! is't over already?” said Linton, with a look of angry impatience.
“This is not fair, Linton!” said Rica, endeavoring to get nearest to the door.
“What is not fair?” said the other, imperiously. “You told me awhile ago that she must pronounce, herself, upon her own future. Well, I am willing to leave it to that issue.”
“But she is unfit to do so at present,” said Rica, entreat-ingly. “You know well how unsettled is her mind, and how wandering are her faculties. There are moments when she scarcely knows me—her father.”