Kester’s face flushed deeply. He got up, walked across the room, and stood looking out of the window for two or three minutes.
“No! a thousand times no!” he exclaimed at last with startling abruptness. “I cannot accept your offer.”
“Is not the sum large enough?” asked Lionel.
“Not one penny piece, Lionel Dering, will I ever accept at your hands!”
“But why not? What is your objection?”
“Do not ask me. I would not tell you if I could. Let it suffice that my objection is insuperable and—let us never talk about this again.” He rang the bell violently. “Pierre, cognac and seltzer. Do you do anything in the racing line?” asked Kester in his lightest tone as Pierre left the room.
“Nothing. I’m as fond of a horse as any man, but I’m profoundly ignorant of racing, and I never bet.”
“That’s a pity, because I could have put you up to one or two good things for the spring meetings. Fine institution—betting,” added Kester, as he lighted another cigar. “It is one of the pleasantest of our vices, when judiciously pursued. When we win, it is a source of double gratification: we not only put money into our own pockets, but we take it out of the pockets of other people.”
“And when you lose?” said Lionel.
“To bear one’s losses like a man of the world and a gentleman is to prove that the teachings of philosophy have not been in vain.”