The bluff man, who had as yet taken no part in the swiftly brewing quarrel, leaned over Mr. Bowling’s vacant chair, and plucked at Quarles’s sleeve. “Hold your peace, man. You’re out of tune. Don’t play if you’re shy of the luck, but for God’s sake let’s have an end to this bickering.”
“I’ll play,” Mr. Quarles said obstinately. “But I say it’s time another man took the bank!”
“Lord, man, there’s a bet on! The bank stays with Vidal.”
“Dominic,” said Mr. Fox plaintively. “Dominic, my dear fellow, I shall have to give up this place, positively I shall have to give it up now the herd has discovered it.”
My lord was still watching Quarles. “Patience, Charles, Mr. Quarles don’t like to see the bank win. You should sympathize.”
Quarles started up. “I don’t like the way this game has gone, my lord,” he said loudly, “and if you won’t give up the bank, I say give us fresh dice!”
His words brought about a sudden uneasy silence. Cholmondley tried to fill the breach, saying quickly: “Lord, you’re too drunk to know what you’re saying, Quarles. Let’s get on with the game.”
“I think not.” The voice came from the end of the table. The Marquis was leaning forward, his wineglass still to his hand. “So you don’t like the dice, eh?”
“No, I don’t like them, curse you!” Quarles shouted. “And I don’t like your high-handed ways, my lord. They won’t serve. I’ve sat three nights and seen you win — ”
He got no further; the Marquis was up and had dashed the contents of his glass full in Quarles’s face. He was smiling now and his eyes blazed. “And that’s a waste of good wine,” he said, and turned and said something to the waiter at his elbow. Mr. Quarles, with the burgundy dripping down his front, sprang up and made a clumsy lunge at him. Cholmondley and Captain Wraxall, the bluff gentleman, forced him back.