“Luck is very capricious, remember.”
“Oh, no, I like your luck; don’t bank.”
“Be it so.”
Playing commenced. An hour elapsed, and the situation of none of the parties was materially different from what it had been when they began the game. Vivian proposed leaving off; but Mr. St. George avowed that he felt very fortunate, and that he had a presentiment that he should win. Another hour elapsed, and he had lost considerably. Eleven o’clock: Vivian’s luck had also deserted him. Mr. St. George was losing desperately. Midnight: Vivian had lost back half his gains on the season. St. George still more desperate, all his coolness had deserted him. He had persisted obstinately against a run on the red; then floundered and got entangled in a seesaw, which alone cost him a thousand.
Ernstorff now brought in refreshments; and for a moment they ceased playing. The Baron opened a bottle of champagne; and St. George and the Chevalier were stretching their legs and composing their minds in very different ways, the first in walking rapidly up and down the room, and the other by lying very quietly at his full length on the sofa; Vivian was employed in building houses with the cards.
“Grey,” said the Chevalier de Boeffleurs, “I cannot imagine why you do not for a moment try to forget the cards: that is the only way to win. Never sit musing over the table.”
But Grey was not to be persuaded to give up building his pagoda: which, now many stories high, like a more celebrated but scarcely more substantial structure, fell with a crash. Vivian collected the scattered cards into two divisions.
“Now!” said the Baron, seating himself, “for St. George’s revenge.”
The Chevalier and the greatest sufferer took their places.
“Is Ernstorff coming in again, Baron?” asked Vivian.