Each fresh minute of play found me parted from some heirloom treasured by Montagus long since dust. In another half hour Montagu Grange was stripped of timber bare as the Row itself. Once, between games, I strolled uneasily down the room, and passing the long looking glass scarce recognized the haggard face that looked out at me. Still I played on, dogged and wretched, not knowing how to withdraw myself from these elegant dandies who were used to win or lose a fortune at a sitting with imperturbable face.
Lord Balmerino gave me a chance. He clapped a hand on my shoulder and said in his brusque kindly way—
“Enough, lad! You have dropped eight thou’ to-night. Let the old family pictures still hang on the walls.”
I looked up, flushed and excited, yet still sane enough to know his advice was good. In the strong sallow face of Major James Wolfe I read the same word. I knew the young soldier slightly and liked him with a great respect, though I could not know that this grave brilliant-eyed young man was later to become England’s greatest soldier and hero. I had even pushed back my chair to rise from the table when the cool gibing voice of Volney cut in.
“The eighth wonder of the world; Lord Balmerino in a new rôle—adviser to young men of fashion who incline to enjoy life. Are you by any chance thinking of becoming a ranting preacher, my Lord?”
“I bid him do as I say and not as I have done. To point my case I cite myself as an evil example of too deep play.”
“Indeed, my Lord! Faith, I fancied you had in mind even deeper play for the future. A vastly interesting game, this of politics. You stake your head that you can turn a king and zounds! you play the deuce instead.”
Balmerino looked at him blackly out of a face cut in frowning marble, but Volney leaned back carelessly in his chair and his insolent eyes never flickered.
As I say, I sat swithering ’twixt will and will-not.
“Better come, Kenneth! The luck is against you to-night,” urged Balmerino, his face relaxing as he turned to me.