CHAPTER X.
EFFECTS OF DINING WELL.
After a dinner at the Thatched House, limited in the number of dishes, but selected with the skill of a Frank Forrester, and assisted by a bottle of Barsac, two bottles of Æil-de-perdrix, and a bottle of Romané, the two friends were seated at the table in that state of indolent beatitude which succeeds a scientifically-chosen repast. The pulse is heightened, but digestion is light; the brain is active, yet somewhat dreamy; the will seems lulled, and anything like an effort seems impossible.
Sipping their Burgundy, Frank and Cecil sat talking over the various experiences of their lives, especially with women—a subject on which men are usually communicative during such hours. Frank was inexhaustible in stories, which made Cecil roll with laughter, or listen with breath-suspended interest. Meanwhile the lights grew dimmer, and their brains grew heavier: the Burgundy was steadily overcoming them. Frank perceiving it, made a movement to go. Cecil tried to persuade him to have another bottle, but he was resolute; and having paid the bill, they departed.
The fresh air somewhat dissipated the effect of the wine, but Cecil was now in a state of craving for a fresh sensation; and when Frank announced his intention of trying his luck with the sovereign he had borrowed, Cecil noisily declared he would go with him.
"Not that I intend to play, though. No, no, I've given that up; that won't do. But come along, Frank; anything for a lark. Lalla-liety! Lalla-liety!" he shouted, in a feeble falsetto, as if announcing to the universe that he was not the boy to go home till morning did appear.
When they entered the gaming-house, Cecil, though perfectly aware of everything he did and said, was still what is called "far gone"; and the dazzling lights, the well-known cries, the chink of the money, the click of the rake against the coin, the murmur of conversation, all conspired to intoxicate him.
While Frank played, he walked about the room, observing the various countenances of the players. In one corner sat a young man of about three and twenty, haggard and pale: he was weeping silently, the tears rolling unheeded down his cheeks, and falling upon the ground, while every now and then a stifled sob seemed to tear his breath. He had lost all.
There was something so painful in this retired sorrow; that Cecil, who was contemplating him with a sort of drunken compassion, went up to him, and said,—
"Do not be downcast, sir, fortune may change. Have you lost much?"
"Seventeen pounds," sobbed the young man; "but it was my all—I am ruined! utterly ruined! Fortune cannot change for me, for I shall never have another sixpence, to tempt her with. O my poor mother! my poor mother!"