"Such being the case"—P. Sybarite pushed back the little army of white chips—"you may give me twenty dark-brown counters for these...."
In ten minutes he had lost two hundred dollars.
At the end of twenty minutes, he exchanged his last thirty-five dollars for seven brown chips.
Ten minutes later, he was worth eighteen hundred dollars; in another ten, he had before him counters calling for five thousand or thereabouts.
"It is," he observed privately—"it must be my Day of Days!"
A hand touched his shoulder, and a quiet voice said: "Beg pardon—"
He looked up with a slight start—that wasn't one of joyous welcome, because the speaker was altogether a stranger—to find at his elbow a large body of man entirely surrounded by evening clothes and urbanity; whose face was broad with plump cheeks particularly clean-shaven; whose eyes were keen and small and twinkling; whose fat hand (offered to P. Sybarite) was strikingly white and dimpled and well-manicured; whose dignity and poise (alike inimitable) combined with the complaisance of a seasoned student of mankind to mark an individuality at once insinuating and forceful.
"You were asking for me, I believe?" pursued this person, with complete suavity.
P. Sybarite pursed doubtful lips. "I'm afraid," he replied pleasantly, "you have the advantage of me.... Let's see: this is my thirty-second birthday...."
The ball was spinning. He deposited four chips on the square numbered 32.