“Jacob,” the young man declared, “I feel to-night as though Jove had looked down from Olympus and winked the other eye at me. You get me? I feel in luck, steeped in the magic of it; couldn’t do wrong, couldn’t pick a loser if I tried. Seven times in eleven spins of the wheel number fourteen came up this afternoon, and to-night I can see number twenty-nine just the same way. Number five table, Jacob, that I’m going to hit. The croupier who’ll be on at ten o’clock has a sort of double squint. I’ll send him to the vaults, sure as this Pommery is about the best tipple I ever drank.... Aren’t you going to have a flutter yourself?”
“Gambling doesn’t appeal very much to me,” Jacob admitted.
The young man who desired to be called Felix sighed.
“Doesn’t gamble,” he mused, “drinks moderately, and likes his fairies good. Jacob dear, I must introduce you some day to the home circle. You were certainly made for domesticity. Did you tell Cook’s man about yourself when you booked for Monte Carlo?”
“I told him that I’d heard it was a good place for winter golf,” Jacob replied, smiling. “If you’ve finished talking nonsense, perhaps you will bring your mighty intellect to bear upon the question of liqueur brandies.”
“Are you feeling at all festive?” Felixstowe enquired.
“Absolutely,” Jacob answered.
“Then consult Louis and leave it to him. You know what Pierpont Morgan called Monte Carlo?—‘the bleeding place for millionaires.’ Louis will see you through it.”
The dinner came to a close in a little burst of glory, Louis himself bringing them a dust-encrusted bottle, whilst a satellite placed before them two glasses which looked like the insides of chandeliers.
“The right stuff,” Lord Felixstowe declared approvingly. “Trust Louis.”