“I’ll tell you what, Bertram,” said Wivenhoe, as they strolled out of the subscription-room together, “if you should care for it, I’ll take you along with me to the Nonesuch Club tonight: all the go, y’know, and devilish exclusive, but they’ll let you in if you come with me.”
“What is it?” Bertram asked.
“Oh, faro and hazard, for the most part! It was started by some of the great guns only this year, because Watier’s is becoming damned flat: they say it won’t last much longer—never been the same since Brummell had to run for it! The Nonesuch is devilish good sport, I can tell you. There ain’t many rules, for one thing, and though most of the men bet pretty heavily, the patrons fixed the minimum stake at twenty guineas, and there’s only one faro-table. What’s more, it ain’t a shabby business enterprise, like half the gaming-clubs, and if you want to play hazard you appoint the croupier from amongst your set, and someone will always volunteer to call the odds. None of these paid croupiers and groom-porters, which made the Great Go more like a hotel than a social club. The whole idea is to make it a friendly affair, keep out the scaff and raff, and do away with all the rules and regulations which get to be such a dead bore! For instance, there’s no damned syndicate running the faro-bank: they take it in turns, the well-breeched swells, like Beaumaris, and Long Wellesley Pole, and Golden Ball, and Petersham, and the rest of that set. Oh, it’s the Pink of the Mode, I can tell you—top-of-the-trees!”
“I’d like to go with you,” Bertram said, “only—Well, the fact is I’m none too plump in the pocket just now! Had a shocking run of luck!”
“Oh, no need to fret over that!” said his insouciant friend. “I keep telling you it ain’t like Watier’s! No one cares whether you bet twenty guineas or a hundred! You come; a man’s luck is bound to change if he sticks to it—one of the things my governor told me, and he should know!”
Bertram was undecided, but since he was already engaged to dine at Long’s Hotel with Lord Wivenhoe there was no need for him to return a definite answer to the invitation until he had thought it over rather more carefully. His lordship said that he should depend upon him, and there the matter for the moment rested.
It was not to be supposed that Bertram’s protracted sojourn in London was causing his sister no anxiety. Arabella was very anxious indeed, for although she was not taken into his confidence she could not doubt, from his appearance, that he was spending money far more lavishly than the winning of a hundred pounds in a lottery justified him in doing. She seldom set eyes on him, and when they did meet she could not think that he was looking well. Late nights, unaccustomed potations, and worry, were taking their toll. But when she told him that he was looking fagged to death, and implored him to return to Yorkshire, he was able to retort with a good deal of truth that she was not particularly blooming herself. It was true. Her bright colour had faded a little, and her eyes had begun to seem a trifle large for her face, etched in, as they were, with shadows. Lord Bridlington, observing this, ascribed it to the absurd exigencies of a London season, and moralized on the folly of females with social ambitions. His mother, who had not failed to take note of the fact that her charge was no longer driving in the Park so frequently with Mr. Beaumaris, and had developed a habit of evading his visits to the house, drew more correct conclusions, but failed signally to induce Arabella to confide in her. Whatever Frederick chose to say, Lady Bridlington was by this time convinced that the Nonpareil was very much in earnest, and she could not imagine what could be holding Arabella back from encouraging his advances. Divining that her reasons would be quite inexplicable to the good lady, Arabella preferred to keep her own counsel.
It had not escaped the notice of the Nonpareil that his tiresome love was not enjoying her customary good-looks and spirits, nor was it unknown to him that she had lately refused three advantageous offers of marriage, since the rejected suitors made no secret of the fact that their hopes were quite cut-up. She had excused herself from dancing with him at Almack’s, but three times during the course of the evening he had been aware that her eyes were following him.
Mr. Beaumaris, rhythmically drawing Ulysses’ flying ear through his hand—a process which reduced Ulysses to a state of blissful idiocy—said meditatively: “It is a melancholy reflection, is it not, that at my age I can be such a fool?”
Ulysses, his eyes half-closed, his senses swooning in ecstasy, gave a sigh which his god might, if he chose, interpret as one of sympathy.