"Including the amount you won last night, I believe," said one of the Bonnets.
"Well, sir, and suppose it is—what the deuce is that to you?" demanded the officer fiercely. "Have I not been here night after night for these six weeks? and have I not lost thousands—thousands? When did I ever get a vein of good luck until last night? But never mind—I'll play on—I'll play till the end: I will either win all back, or lose everything together. And then—in the latter case—"
He stopped: he had just lost again. His countenance grew ghastly pale, and he bit his lips convulsively.
"Claret—more claret!" he exclaimed, throwing away the Havannah: "that cigar only makes me the more thirsty."
And again the play proceeded.
"I am really afraid to contemplate that young man's countenance," whispered Markham to Chichester.
"Why so?"
"I have an idea that if he should prove unsuccessful he will commit suicide. I have a great mind just to mention my fears to these men in the green shades, who seem to be winning all his money."
"Pray be quiet. They will only laugh at you."
"But the life of a fellow-creature?"