“Red upon white; yellow’s your player,” said the marker, and Tom went up to make the stroke required of him; then he turned once more to glance at the table next to him, and watched two or three of the bets made.
“Past ten,” he said to himself, glancing at his watch. “That’s getting back to dinner. Never mind, I’m not the party wanted by her ladyship. Charley must have known she was to be married to-morrow. I liked him too,” he said, gazing at the players. “He’s a big, strong, noble-looking fellow. Ah, well! I suppose that’s because I’m little. One mustn’t go by outside appearances. Perhaps it’s all for the best.”
Just then a friend proposed that they should drop in at one of the theatres and see the new burlesque; and after a little hesitation Tom consented to go. After this a kidney had to be eaten at a tavern; so that it was one o’clock when he reached home, to find the lights burning, and a cluster of servants in the hall.
“Hallo, Robbins, what’s up? House on fire?” he cried, as the butler admitted him, looking very solemn and troubled.
“No, my lord. Oh, dear no.”
“Don’t be an old image. What is it? Sir Grantley had a fit?”
“My young lady, my lord,” said the butler in a solemn, mysterious whisper.
“Not ill—not ill?” cried Tom, excitedly.
“No, my lord,” said the butler, “not ill, but—”
“Confound you, you great pump. Speak out,” cried Tom, angrily.