The hand was played. As the cards were gathered up Sir Anthony said: “I take it so shrewd a youth stands in no need of a friendly warning?”
Certainly the enigmatic gentleman was developing a kindness for her. “You’re very kind, sir. I do not know why you should be at this trouble for me.” It was spoken with some warmth of gratitude.
“Nor I,” said Fanshawe indolently. “But you are not — in spite of those twenty years — of a great age, and there are plenty of hawks in town.”
Prudence bowed. “I shall take that to heart, sir. I have to thank you.”
“Pray do not. Plucking pigeons has never been a favourite pastime of mine... Well, I concede your point, but I claim a quinte and fourteen Queens, besides three Kings. Alack for a spoiled repique! Five played, sir.”
The game came presently to an end. “Very even,” said Sir Anthony. “Do you care to honour me at a small card party I hold on Thursday evening?”
“Indeed, sir, mine will be the honour. On Thursday and in Clarges Street, I think?”
Sir Anthony nodded. He beckoned to a lackey standing near, and sent him to fetch wine. “You will drink a glass with me, Merriot?”
“Thank you, a little canary, sir.”
The wine was brought; one or two gentlemen had wandered towards the table, and stood now in converse there. Sir Anthony made Mr Merriot known to them. Prudence found herself pledged to ride out next morning in the Park with a chubby-faced young gentleman of a friendly disposition. This was the Honourable Charles Belfort, who combined a passion for dice with almost phenomenal ill-luck, but managed to remain cheerful under it.