‘Nor after it, I hope, my darling. But walk Leila now, there’s a good child, and let her simmer down a little. You’ve made me feel just as I do when I think I’ve missed the odd trick.’
‘I believe you are fonder of playing cards than anything, Ilfracombe,’ said Nora slowly.
‘I am—except you. But they are so jolly—there’s so much excitement about cards. They keep a man alive.’
‘But, Ilfracombe, why need we always play for such high stakes? Do you know I lost thirty pounds at “Sandown” yesterday evening?’
‘Did you, dearest? Are you cleaned out? I will let you have some more as soon as we reach home.’
‘No, it is not that. It would not signify once in a way perhaps, but it is the same thing every night. It seems an awful waste of money.’
‘Not if you enjoy it, dear. We must pay for our whistle, you know. Cards would be no fun without the stakes. And somebody must lose.’
‘Yes, and somebody must win. Only, as it happens, it is always the same somebody, which doesn’t seem fair.’
‘Nora, what do you mean?’
‘Just what I say, Ilfracombe. I lose every night; so do you; so does Lord Babbage; and the only person who wins is Mr Portland. All the money seems to go into his pocket.’