“I mean to enter, though well I know, when love is a game of three, one heart can win but pain.”
“But that would surely be mine, for what chance has a poor devil of an artist like me with the invincible Frost?”
“I come under the same heading,” returned Willard, “I am an artist too.”
“Yes, but it would keep me in a desperate rush to run ahead of you—you the prince of the swagger set, a member of half a dozen clubs, owner of the smartest of four-in-hands, a capital dinner-giver, and a first-rate host, and, accompanying these, a plethoric purse to make all hospitalities easy.”
As Robert spoke, Frost poured out the last of the second bottle of champagne and looked carelessly at the bill for it, which the waiter had presented to the other.
“Suppose you find you a champion to do your battle—a John Alden?”
“He might do as Alden did, and keep the prize. My chum, Latham, is the only one I dare trust to win and divide spoils, and he is abroad now, you know.”
“Right glad I am, for Marrion Latham is a marvellous success with womankind. Still, I want some one to oppose me, for no game is worth a rap for a rational man to play unless he has competition”—this with decided emphasis.
“What’s the matter with Fred Stanhope? I think he will make it interesting for you.”