“An old gentleman, or the—?”
“Oh, Harrington,” cried Zoe, “fie!”
“My wit is appreciated at its value. Proceed, Ned.”
Severne told him, a little defiantly, it was an old gentleman, with a noble head, a silvery beard, and the most benevolent countenance he ever saw.
“Curious place for his reverence to be in,” hazarded Vizard.
“He saw me betting, first on the black, then on the red, till I was cleaned out, and then he beckoned me.”
“Not a man of premature advice anyway.”
“He told me he had observed my play. I had been relying on the alternations of the colors, which alternation chance persistently avoids, and arrives at equality by runs. He then gave me a better system.”
“And, having expounded his system, he illustrated it? Tell the truth now; he sat down and lost the coat off his back? It followed his family acres.”
“You are quite wrong again. He never plays. He has heart-disease, and his physician has forbidden him all excitement.”