"Precisely my own 'pinion!" murmured Lord Alvaston. "For if a dog's a dog he's only a dam dog—'sequently whip him when needful. Same with a horse. But a woman being a woman ain't a dog nor a horse, therefore since she is a woman 'stead of whipping, worship——"
"Talking o' whips," said the Marquis, "I should devoutly and vastly desire to see some masterful ass attempt to horsewhip Bet, 'twould be a sight for the gods—she has all her brother's fire and spirit with a cleverer head."
"None the less, Alton," retorted Mr. Dalroyd, "the man who wins her will be the man who masters her."
"No, no, Dalroyd," exclaimed Sir Jasper soulfully, "who shall master a goddess? Who but the humblest of her admirers shall hope to win the queen of women?"
"I'm with you there, Denholm!" said Lord Alvaston heartily, "and talking o' queens, not an ace have I touched this game—I'm done!"
"Same here!" growled Mr. Marchdale. "You've all the luck, Dalroyd. I owe you another fifty, I think?"
"Seventy-five!" murmured Mr. Dalroyd.
"Well, I'm for bed!" yawned his lordship.
"So'm I!" nodded Mr. Marchdale.
"Eh—bed?" cried the Marquis reproachfully. "Bed—and not gone twelve yet—shameful, O dem!"