During lulls Thomas dreamed. He was going to give himself until thirty to make his fortune; and he was going to make it down there in the wilds of South America. But invariably the sleepy mocking eyes of Lord Monckton brought him back to earth, jarringly.
Once, Kitty caught Thomas gazing malevolently at Lord Monckton. No love lost between them, evidently. It was the ancient story: to wager, to borrow, to lend, to lose a friend.
Long after midnight Kitty awoke. She awoke hungry. So she put on her slippers and peignoir and stole down-stairs. The grills on each side of the entrance to the main hall were open; that is, the casement windows were thrown back. She heard voices and naturally paused to learn whose they were. She would have known them anywhere in the world.
"Tut, tut, Tommy; don't be a bally ass and lose your temper."
"Temper? Lose my temper? I'm not losing it, but I'm jolly well tired of this rotten business."
"It was you who suggested the wager; I only accepted it."
"I know it."
"And once booked, no Englishman will welch, if he isn't a cad."
"I'm not thinking of welching. But I don't see what you get out of it."
"Sport. And a good hand at bridge."