He said in an undervoice: “You know I hate you to do this!”
“You are interrupting the game, my dear.”
He muttered: “When we are married I shan’t permit it.”
She looked up, mischievously smiling. “When we are married, you foolish boy, I shall of course do exactly as you wish. Your deal, Mr Ravenscar!”
Mr Ravenscar, on whom this soft dialogue had not been wasted, picked up the pack, and wished that he had Miss Grantham’s throat in his strong, lean hands instead.
The last rubber went very ill for Miss Grantham. Ravenscar won it in two swift games, and announced the sum of her losses to be six hundred pounds. She took this without a blink, and turned in her chair to issue a low-voiced direction to Mr Lucius Kennet, who, with one or two others, had come to watch the progress of the game. He nodded, and moved away towards the adjoining saloon. Sir James Filey said mockingly: “How mistaken of you, my dear, to play against Ravenscar! Someone should have warned you.”
“You, for instance,” said Ravenscar, directing a glance up at him under his black brows. “Once bit twice shy, wasn’t it?”
Miss Grantham, who detested Sir James, cast her late opponent a grateful look. Sir James’s colour darkened, but the smile lingered on his lips, and he said equably: “Oh, picquet’s not my game! I will not meet you there. But in the field of sport, now—! That is a different matter!”
“Which field of sport?” inquired Ravenscar.
“Have you still a pair of match greys in your stable?” said Sir James, drawing out his snuff box.