"The fact is," explained Chesterfield confidentially, "that old Pam has been dead for several years, but he doesn't choose to have it known. Pardon me, am I delaying the game?" He was not, and he knew it; but my Lord Chesterfield was far too polite to more than hint to Topham Beauclerc that he had fallen asleep over his throw. Selwyn and Lord March lounged into the coffee house arm in arm. On their heels came Sir James Craven, the choicest blackleg in England. "How d'ye do, everybody? Whom are you and O'Sully rooking to-night, Volney? Oh, I see--Montagu. Beg pardon," said Craven coolly. Volney looked past the man with a wooden face that did not even recognize the fellow as a blot on the landscape. There was bad blood between the two men, destined to end in a tragedy. Sir James had been in the high graces of Frederick Prince of Wales until the younger and more polished Volney had ousted him. On the part of the coarse and burly Craven, there was enduring hatred toward his easy and elegant rival, who paid back his malice with a serene contempt. Noted duellist as Craven was, Sir Robert did not give a pinch of snuff for his rage. The talk veered to the new fashion of spangled skirts, and Walpole vowed that Lady Coventry's new dress was covered with spangles big as a shilling. "'Twill be convenient for Coventry. She'll be change for a guinea," suggested Selwyn gloomily, his solemn face unlighted by the vestige of a smile. So they jested, even when the play was deepest and while long-inherited family manors passed out of the hands of their owners. The recent French victory at _Fontenoy_ still rankled in the heart of every Englishman. Within, the country seethed with an undercurrent of unrest and dissatisfaction. It was said that there were those who boasted quietly among themselves over their wine that the sun would yet rise some day on a Stuart England, that there were desperate men still willing to risk their lives in blind loyalty or in the gambler's spirit for the race of Kings that had been discarded for its unworthiness. But the cut of his Mechlin lace ruffles was more to the Macaroni than his country's future. He made his jest with the same aplomb at births and weddings and deaths. 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."