Lynde took his loss with equanimity. “Now to double it,” he observed, “and get all our losses back, or go downstairs and have a rarebit and some champagne. What form of a present would please you best?—but never mind. I know a souvenir for this occasion.”
He smiled and bought more gold. Aileen stacked it up showily, if a little repentantly. She did not quite approve of this—his plunging—and yet she did; she could not help sympathizing with the plunging spirit. In a few moments it was on the board—the same combination, the same stacks, only doubled—four thousand all told. The croupier called, the ball rolled and fell. Barring three hundred dollars returned, the bank took it all.
“Well, now for a rarebit,” exclaimed Lynde, easily, turning to Lord, who stood behind him smiling. “You haven’t a match, have you? We’ve had a run of bad luck, that’s sure.”
Lynde was secretly the least bit disgruntled, for if he had won he had intended to take a portion of the winnings and put it in a necklace or some other gewgaw for Aileen. Now he must pay for it. Yet there was some satisfaction in having made an impression as a calm and indifferent, though heavy loser. He gave Aileen his arm.
“Well, my lady,” he observed, “we didn’t win; but we had a little fun out of it, I hope? That combination, if it had come out, would have set us up handsomely. Better luck next time, eh?”
He smiled genially.
“Yes, but I was to have been your luck, and I wasn’t,” replied Aileen.
“You are all the luck I want, if you’re willing to be. Come to the Richelieu to-morrow with me for lunch—will you?”
“Let me see,” replied Aileen, who, observing his ready and somewhat iron fervor, was doubtful. “I can’t do that,” she said, finally, “I have another engagement.”
“How about Tuesday, then?”