“Two hundred it is,” the Marquis agreed, and put up his eyeglass to watch the throw of the dice.
Cholmondley called sixes. Lord Rupert looked solemnly at the dice as they fell on the table. “Deuce ace,” he declared. “Bank can’t win for ever, eh, Vidal?”
Mr. Quarles, who had been tapping an impatient foot, burst out: “I’d say my Lord Vidal can’t lose!”
The eyeglass dangled on its black ribbon from between my lord’s fingers. “Would you?” said the Marquis gently, and as though he waited for more.
“Oh, stand out, Quarles, if you can’t stay the course!” said Cholmondley impatiently.
It was evident that Mr. Quarles had reached the quarrelsome stage. “I’ll stay the course well enough, sir, but the luck’s too damned uneven for my taste.”
Mr. Fox took a mirror from his capacious pocket, and studied his reflection in it. With considerable care he straightened his toupet, and flicked a speck of snuff from the lapel of his coat. “Dominic,” he said wearily.
The Marquis shot him a look.
“Dominic, how did this place grow to be so devilish vulgar?”
“Hush, Charles, hush!” said the Marquis. “You interrupt my dear friend. He is about to explain himself.”