"You ought to know," Max observed dryly, as again he made his point.
The Frenchman straightened himself. There was something of kinship between these two, a tacit sympathy that had taken root on the night of Chris's birthday, an understanding that called for no explanation.
"Yes," he said, with a quick nod, "I know them both. They are worth just—that." He snapped his fingers in the air. "They pass like"—he hesitated a moment, then ended with deliberation—"like pictures in the sand."
"The same remark applies to most things," said Rupert.
Bertrand glanced at him. "To all but one, monsieur," he said, in a queer tone that was almost tinged with irony.
Again he bent himself to a stroke with a quick, light grace, as though he regarded success as a foregone conclusion.
"Look at that!" said Noel in dejection, as the ball cannoned triumphantly down the table. "The gods are all on his side."
The stroke was a brilliant one, but Bertrand did not immediately straighten himself as before. He remained leaning across the table, as if he watched the effect of his skill.
There was a brief pause before very carefully he laid his cue upon the cloth and began to raise himself, slowly, with infinite caution, using both hands.
"No," he said, speaking jerkily, in a rapid undertone, as if to himself.
"The gods—are no more—on my side."