CHAPTER III.
THE TIGER TASTES BLOOD.
"Cis, my boy," said Frank, as they stepped into the street, "you have made a conquest there; poor Chetsom!"
"Pshaw!" said Cecil, "don't be absurd, Frank; she knows I'm married."
Frank stopped—turned him round to look him full in the face—and then whistled.
"Cis, your innocence—if it be not hypocrisy—is worthy of a primitive age. Married! She knows you're married! Ha! ha! ha! By George! you remind me of that vaudeville we saw last year at the Variétés in Paris, where Lafont embraces Ozy, who repulses him with—Mais, Mosieu, j'aime mon mari; to which Lafont, stupefied at such innocence, as I am at yours, replies—Tiens! tu aimes ton mari? c'est bizarre, sans doute; mais enfin ce n'est pas defendu!"
"Joke as you please; I repeat, Hester knows I am married, and may easily see that I have no disposition to be unfaithful."
"Cis, you ought to have a statue! Damn my whiskers!" They walked on for some moments without speaking. "By the way, Cis, you asked me to lend you some money. I hadn't it then, I have now. I won a few yellow boys of a conceited ass who had the amiable weakness of fancying he could play écarté—and with me too—with me! It is but a paltry seven that I won, but that properly placed must bring in more. I think you have never played rouge et noir, have you?"
"Never; nor do I intend."
"Nonsense! look here: Men always win at first: it's an invariable rule. Fortune always seduces youngsters with smiles. Now, I'll lend you five pounds, if you will try your luck, and give me a third of your winnings."