"I do not find them amusing," smiled Rose Lyndwood.
Both fell on silence again. The door opened sharply, and a gentleman entered the coffee-house. My lord did not turn his head, but Sir Thomas looked with some surprise at the new-comer, who was not of a type common to taverns at this time of night.
He was a young man, alert, composed, graceful, with noticeable chestnut hair and eyes of the same hue; a peacock-blue mantle was wrapped about him. He took off his hat, spoke to the drawer and passed to the table behind the Earl, where the screen hid him from Cathcart's observation.
"Who is that spark?" asked my lord. "He has a business-like tread for three in the morning."
"I do not know him; 'tis no one I have seen here before." Sir Thomas called for his bill and shifted from one pocket to another the roll of paper and gold he had won from the Earl and Lord Sandys. "I'm going," he said, as he paid the drawer. "It is plaguy dull here, and late, too."
"I'm well enough," answered my lord, yawning. "Good-night."
"Good-night!"
Sir Thomas got into his cloak and swaggered off; the door banged after him. My lord yawned again, and called for a pint of wine. The sombre chimes struck half-past three. The Earl eyed under drooping lids the stained glasses and cards before him, the closed window, the flickering lamp. He drank his wine slowly, and with a brooding face propped on his hand fell into a gloomy silence of miserable thoughts.
A quick step roused him; he glanced up to see the gentleman in the peacock mantle coming round the screen. He sat up, and it was not pleasure that flushed his cheek. He saw, standing the other side of the dismantled table, the elegant figure, the fresh handsome face, the masterful eyes of a man he did not love.
"I had not thought to see you here," he said slowly.