He spoke about gardens as though he had known many; he spoke of trees and of land and of stock; and, as he spoke in his pleasant, grave young voice, he noticed the portraits on the wall; and he spoke of pictures as though he had known many, and he spoke of foreign cities, and of old-world scenes. And she listened in silence and in such content that the happiness of it seemed to invade her utterly and leave her physically numb.
From time to time his dark eyes wandered from her to the objects in the room; they rested for a moment on the centre-table with its Book, lingered, passed on. For a little while he did not look at her—as though first it were necessary to come to a conclusion. Whatever the conclusion might have been, it seemed to make his eyes and mouth alternately grave and amused—but only very faintly amused—as though the subject he was considering held him closely attentive.
And at last he looked up at her, gently, not all the curiosity yet quenched.
"You are kind enough to wish to know about me; and too well bred to ask—now that the time is come. Shall I speak of myself?"
Her voiceless lips found a word.
"Then—It began in college—after my uncle died and left nothing for me to go on with. . . . I worked my way through—by my wits. . . . Up to that time it was only luck and card-sense—and luck again—the ability to hold the best cards at the best time—hold them honestly, I mean. It happens—I don't know why or what laws govern it. Some men hold them—always hold them—with intervals of bad fortune—but only intervals."
He gazed thoughtfully at the rag carpet, passed a well-shaped hand over his forehead.
"Yes, it is the truth. . . . And so, Fortune linked arms with me . . . and I drifted into it—gradually—not all at once . . . lower—always a little lower—until—what you saw occurred."
She would not meet his eyes, perhaps with an idea of sparing him.
He said: "You know nothing of such things, of course. . . . I am—on a commission basis for doing what—they threw me out of that hotel for doing. . . . Of course, a man can fall lower—but not much lower. . . . The business from which I receive commissions is not honest—a square game, as they say. Some games may be square for a while; no games are perfectly square all the time. . . . I have heard of honest gamblers; I never saw one. . . . There may be some; but I'm afraid they're like good Indians. . . . And that is the way in which Life and I are situated."