“I don’t believe,” said Arthur viciously, “that he plays merely for the pleasure of the game, as he says. I believe he’s trying to make a pile for himself, in case his father, when he turns up, should object to the way they’ve been going on, and cut off supplies.”
This was a good suggestion, and Gerard muttered, “By Jove!”
“Of course I don’t mean to suggest,” went on Arthur hastily, “that there’s anything fishy about his play. Only that he isn’t indifferent to what he makes by it.”
“I think that too,” assented Gerard.
“But pray don’t say I made any suggestion of the sort,” added Arthur. “I shouldn’t like the girls to hear that I had said anything they wouldn’t like to hear about their brother. And indeed I don’t know that I have any right to say what I did to you; but I’m rather sore at having been fool enough to lose more money than I can afford.”
“Of course,” suggested Gerard tentatively, “if you suspect the one you must suspect the rest, and surely you don’t think the ladies—”
Arthur interrupted quite fiercely.
“I don’t suspect anybody. I never said such a thing,” he said irritably. “Of course it’s all right. But what I meant was that I don’t like American men and their ways and habits and tastes, so well as I like the feminine part of the nation. The daughters are charming, perfectly charming, and the old lady is quite a treat in her refreshing innocence. The sight of that quaint New England—it is New England, isn’t it, that the quaint old figures come from?—New England figure among all those smart young modern men and women, is something one can’t forget.”
“You’re quite right,” said Gerard enthusiastically. “She’s an old dear, with her skimpy little shawl, and what I’m sure she would call her best taffety petticoat.”
The two young men laughed, and, as there was no sign of a forward movement in the big car, Arthur started his motor, and soon arrived at the spot where the group stood round the disabled machine.