“That looks frightfully exciting,” he said disparagingly. “What are you playing at? Patience?”
Hargate nodded again—this time without looking up.
“Oh, don’t sit there looking like a frog,” said Lord Dreever irritably. “Talk, man.”
Hargate gathered up the cards and proceeded to shuffle them in a meditative manner, whistling the while.
“Oh, stop it!” said his lordship.
Hargate nodded, and stopped.
“Look here,” said Lord Dreever, “this is boring me stiff. Let’s have a game at something—anything to pass away the time. Hang this rain! We shall be cooped up here till dinner at this rate. Ever played piquet? I could teach you in five minutes.”
A look almost of awe came into Hargate’s face—the look of one who sees a miracle performed before his eyes. For years he had been using all the large stock of diplomacy at his command to induce callow youths to play piquet with him, and here was this admirable young man, this pearl among young men, positively offering to teach him the game. It was too much happiness. What had he done to deserve this? He felt as a toil-worn lion might feel if some antelope, instead of making its customary bee-line for the horizon, were to trot up and insert its head between his jaws.
“I— I shouldn’t mind being shown the idea,” he said.
He listened attentively while Lord Dreever explained at some length the principles which govern the game of piquet. Every now and then he asked a question. It was evident that he was beginning to grasp the idea of the game.