Sir Anthony stood still behind Prudence’s chair, and in silence watched the play through his eye-glass. The stakes had been raised at each new game; at the end of this one Sir Francis was most strangely a heavy loser. Either the young sprig from the country had played the game a-many times before, or else the Providence who guides the hands of novices had exerted herself most prodigiously on Mr Merriot’s behalf. Sir Francis was disinclined to believe Mr Merriot an adept: he had not the manner of it.
Sir Anthony moved at last, and spoke before Jollyot could suggest yet a fourth game, “Will you take a hand with me, Merriot?”
“I should be pleased, sir,” Prudence swept the little pile of guineas to one side.
There was nothing for Sir Francis to do but to go elsewhere. He gave up his seat to Fanshawe, and trusted he might have an evening with Mr Merriot some time in the near future.
“Why, sir, I shall count myself fortunate,” said Prudence.
Sir Francis moved away to a group of men by the window. Prudence turned to find Sir Anthony shuffling the pack. “Will you name the stakes, sir?” she said.
“What you will,” Sir Anthony replied. “What were they with my friend, Jollyot?”
She told him indifferently enough.
“Do you make it a rule to play for so large a sum?” blandly inquired Sir Anthony.
“I make it a rule, sir, to play for whatever sum my opponent suggests,” was the quick answer.