“You need not sit up for me.”
“Very well, sir.”
“And yet—on second thoughts—you had perhaps better do so.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kester took off his dress-coat, put on an old shooting-jacket and a smoking-cap, and then went off to the billiard-room.
“Monsieur St. George means mischief to-night,” said Pierre, smiling to himself, and rubbing his hands slowly. “It is not very often I see that light in his eye. When I do see it, I know it means no good to somebody.”
Kester found the two men chalking their cues. A servant was mixing a tumbler of brandy-and-seltzer for Osmond.
“I’ll play you one game, a hundred up,” said Osmond, as soon as the servant had left the room; “and I’ll back my own play for ten pounds.”
“You know that I never bet,” said Lionel.
“I wouldn’t give the snuff of a candle for a fellow who hasn’t the pluck to back his own play, or his own opinion,” said Osmond, with a sneer.