“They call him the Faro King,” said Drake. “Made all his money by gambling in Paris, and now he is a squire with a living in his gift.”
Then over the laughter and voices, the band and the singing, with an awful suddenness there came a crash of thunder. The band and the comic song stopped, and there was a hush for a moment. Then Lord Robert said:
“Wonder if this is the dreadful storm that is to overwhelm the nation, don't you know!”
That fell on the house of frivolity like a second thunderbolt, and people began to look up with blanched faces.
“Well, it isn't the first time the storm has howled; it's been howling all along,” said Lord Robert, but nobody laughed.
Presently the company recovered itself, the bands and the singing were heard again, louder and wilder than before, the men shouted for more champagne, and nicknamed every waiter “Father Storm.”
Glory was ashamed. With her head on her hand she was looking at the people around when the “Faro King,” who had been making eyes at her, leaned over her shoulder and said in a confidential whisper, “And what is Gloria looking for?”
“I am looking for a man,” she answered. And as the big beard turned away with “Oh, confound it!” she became aware that Drake and Lord Robert were at high words from opposite sides of the table.
“No, I tell you no, no, no!” said Drake. “Call him a weakling and a fool and an ass, if you will, but does that explain everything? This is one of the men with the breath of God in him, and you can't judge of him by ordinary standards.”
“Should think not, indeed, dear chap,” said Lord Robert, “Common sense laughs at the creature.”