“With all my heart!” said Mr Ravenscar, gathering up the cards. “You are a good loser, Miss Grantham.”
“Oh, I don’t regard this little reverse, I assure you! I am not rolled up yet!”
As the night wore on, however, she began to go down heavily, as though Ravenscar, trifling with her at first, had decided to exert his skill against her. She thought the luck favoured him, but was forced to acknowledge him to be her master.
“You make me feel like a greenhorn!” she said lightly, when he robbed her of a pique. “Monstrous of you to have kept the spade-guard! I did not look for such usage, indeed!”
“No, you would have thrown the little spade on the slim chance of picking up an ace or a king, would you not?”
“Oh, I always gamble on slim chances—and rarely lose! But you are a cold gamester, Mr Ravenscar!”
“I don’t bet against the odds, I own,” he smiled, beckoning to a waiter. “You’ll take a glass of claret, Miss Grantham?”
“No, not I! Nothing but lemonade, I thank you. I need to have my wits about me in this contest. But this must be our last rubber. I see my aunt going down to the second supper, and judge it must be three o’clock at least.”
Lord Mablethorpe, who had wandered away disconsolately some time before, came back to the table with a tale of losses at faro to report, and a complaint to utter that his Deb was neglecting him for his tiresome cousin. “How’s the tally?” he asked, leaning his hand on the back of her chair.
“Well, I am dipped a trifle, but not above two or three hundred pounds, I fancy.”