Sir William resented this as an imputation that he was not cool-headed.
“I don’t know why you should say that,” he said rather sharply. “I suppose poker has to be learned like everything else, and probably you play it better now than when you first began.”
Denver shook his head modestly.
“Not always,” he said; “sometimes I’m an arrant duffer at it. Why the other day I was cleaned out, absolutely cleaned out, by a fellow who hadn’t played half a dozen times in his life. I did feel a fool, I can tell you!”
“You shall try again with me this evening,” said the baronet. “I’m not going to be beaten without a struggle, at that or at anything else.”
Denver, however, tried to dissuade him.
“You’ll only get licked,” he said simply. “Whatever sort of a player you may make some day, and if you go on trying I suppose you will do all right in time, you’re not strong enough to play with old hands like me and the two others who were with us to-day.”
Mrs. Van Santen shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s an almighty shame to play cards all Sunday!” she said, in her homely way. “I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself, Denver, to start it!”
“Well, so I am, perhaps,” said he good-humoredly; “but I love cards, and if anyone else wants to play, I’m ready to take him on, you bet!”