“Talking of gaming,” said Ravenscar, “when do you mean to permit me to measure my skill against yours at the game which, I confess, I regard as peculiarly my own?”
“Peculiarly your own?” murmured Ormskirk, raising his brows. “Can you mean piquet, my dear Ravenscar?”
“Why, yes!” acknowledged Ravenscar. “You threw a most delicate challenge in my way the other night. I must confess my curiosity and my self-esteem were stirred. I did not think I had my match, but I fancy you think otherwise, my lord.”
“To be sure,” sighed his lordship, “I have not been used to consider my own skill contemptible.”
“Come and dine at my house, and let us discover which of us has met his match!”
Ormskirk did not answer immediately. The bored smile still lingered on his lips, but seemed to have grown a little rigid. He went on polishing his glass with his lace-edged handkerchief, his eyes veiled.
“No?” Ravenscar said, the faintest suggestion of mockery in his voice.
Ormskirk lifted his eyes, and also his quizzing-glass. “My dear Ravenscar! My very dear Ravenscar! I never refuse a challenge. By all means let us measure our skill! But my recollection is that I invited you to come to nay house. Give me the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight, I beg of you!”
Mr Ravenscar accepted this invitation, stayed for a few moments in idle conversation, and presently withdrew, perfectly satisfied with the results of his visit to the club.
He dined tête-à-tête with his lordship, the faded sister who presided over the establishment having gone to spend the evening with friends, his lordship explained. Ravenscar guessed that she had had orders to absent herself, for it was well known that she never received anything but the most cavalier treatment from her brother. Dinner was good, and the wine excellent. Mr Ravenscar, calmly drinking glass for glass with his host, was glad to think that he had a hard head. He might almost have suspected Ormskirk of trying to fuddle his brain a little, so assiduous was he in keeping his guest’s glass filled.