Geoffries looked shyly at this strange deus ex machina, troubled by perplexing considerations. How much had the Rajah heard of the previous conversation, how much had he understood? Above all, what would his comrades say if they found him pouring out his heart to "this fellow," who had been the constant butt for their arrogant contempt? And yet, as often happens, amidst his many friends he was intensely alone. There was no single one to whom he could turn with the burden of his conscience, no one to whom he did not systematically play himself off as something other than he was. And opposite he looked into a face full of grave sympathy, not unshadowed with personal sadness. Yet he hesitated, and Nehal Singh went on thoughtfully:
"There are some things I do not understand," he said. "You were playing some game for money. I have heard of that before, but I do not understand. Are you then, so poor?"
Geoffries laughed miserably.
"I am now," he said.
"Then it is money that is the trouble?"
"It always is. At first one plays for the fun of the thing and because—oh, well, one has to, don't you know. Afterward, one plays to get it back."
"But you have not got it back?"
Geoffries shook his head.
"I never do," he said. "I'm a rotter at bridge."
"A hundred rupees!" Nehal went on reflectively. "That was the sum, I think? It is very little—not enough to cause you any trouble."