'At her and kiss her! Are you going to be governed all your life by that whey-faced old Methodist? Or be your own man? Tell me that.'
'My lord, there's fifty thousand pounds upon it,' Thomasson said, his face red. And he pushed back the bottle. The setting sun, peeping a moment through the rain clouds and the low-browed lattice windows, flung an angry yellow light on the board and the three flushed faces round it. 'Fifty thousand pounds,' repeated Mr. Thomasson firmly.
'Damme! so there is!' my lord answered, settling his chin in his cravat and dusting the crumbs from his breeches. 'I'll take no more. So there!'
'I thought your lordship was a good-humoured man and no flincher,' Mr. Pomeroy retorted with a sneer.
'Oh, I vow and protest--if you put it that way,' the weakling answered, once more extending his hand, the fingers of which closed lovingly round the bottle, 'I cannot refuse. Positively I cannot.'
'Fifty thousand pounds!' the tutor said, shrugging his shoulders.
Lord Almeric drew back his hand.
'Why, she'll like you the better!' Pomeroy cried fiercely, as he thrust the bottle to him again. 'D'you think a woman doesn't love an easy husband? And wouldn't rather have a good fellow than a thread-paper?'
'Mr. Pomeroy! Mr. Pomeroy!' the tutor said. Such words used of a lord shocked him.
'A milksop! A thing of curds and whey!'