Tom laughed.
"Yes, I do generally, and a penny to the cook besides, which, I will be bound, he does not. But that's nothing to the point. He hates me, though why, I'm sure I don't—I can only guess."
"Some girl, I suppose," said Molken, coolly.
Thomas felt too much flattered to endeavor even to dilute the insinuation; and Molken went on:
"Well, but how can the fellow bear malice? Of course, he must have seen from the first that he had no chance with you. I'll tell you what, Worboise; I have had a good deal of experience, and it is my conviction, from what I have seen of you, that you are one of the lucky ones—one of the elect, you know-born to it, and can't help yourself."
Tom pulled out his watch.
"Half an hour to spare yet," he said. "Come up to the smoking-room."
Having ordered a bottle of Rhine wine, Tom turned to Molken, and said:
"What did you mean by saying that I was one of the lucky ones?"
"Oh, don't you know there are some men born under a lucky star—as they would have said in old times? What the cause is, of course I don't know, except it be that Heaven must have some favorites, if only for the sake of variety. At all events, there is no denying that some men are born to luck. They are lucky in everything they put their hands to. Did you ever try your luck in a lottery, now?"