During dinner Mr Davison scarcely spoke a word. His feelings were too strong for speech--at least, at such a gathering. The young lady, observing his silence, commented on it in what seemed almost a spirit of gratuitous malice. "I am afraid, Mr Davison, we do not please you." "Mdlle. de Fontanes!" "Or perhaps you are not so eloquent as Mr Lintorn--ever?" "No, never." Mdlle. de Fontanes spoke so hesitatingly, and in such low tones, that only Mr Davison caught the words she uttered next. "Perhaps--there is a certain manner--which--only comes with age." "You seem to think that I am nothing but a boy. I will prove to you that at least in some things I am a man." She looked up at him and smiled. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were bright. To make up, perhaps, for his lack of conversation, he had been drinking all the time. When they re-entered the _salon_ the card-table was arranged for play. Mr Davison went up to it at once. "M. de Fontanes, I hope for my revenge." Mdlle. de Fontanes went to his side and whispered him,-- "I asked you!" "But I had promised. Besides, I wish to show you that _écarté_ is one of the things in which you underrate my age." M. de Fontanes sat down. There was a curious look upon his face. "Mr Lintorn, you and I are old antagonists. Who was it used to win?" "Invariably you." "Ah, then it is your turn now!" "Perhaps." They played gallery. In spite of his prediction, fortune, as a rule, was with their host. The stakes were trifling, his losses small, yet it was curious to see the irritation with which Mr Lintorn saw his francs forsake him. He was playing with M. de Fontanes. The old gentleman scored the king. Suddenly Mr Lintorn, throwing his cards on the table, rose to his feet. "It is enough!" he said. His opponent looked up in not unnatural surprise. "How?" "You have won, and you will win certainly." He turned to the lady. "Mdlle. de Fontanes, you must excuse me. I have letters to write." Without another word he left the room. A pause of blank amazement followed his disappearance. M. de Fontanes sat like a figure carved in stone. "Is Mr Lintorn ill?" his daughter asked. Mr Davison took upon himself to answer. "He must be, or else mad. I believe he always is half-mad. But never mind! I'm glad he's gone. Now, M. de Fontanes, you have to reckon with me. For revenge! Your daughter doubts if I can play _écarté_. I will show her that her doubts are vain." He drank two glasses of Maraschino, one after the other, emptying each at a draught. Placing the liqueur case beside him on the table, he sat down again to play. And they played on, and on, and on, hour after hour. Mr Davison continually lost. Fortune never varied; it was against him all the time. As his losses increased, he insisted on increasing the stakes. At last they were playing for really considerable sums. "Fortune must turn!" he cried. "I never saw such cards in all my life! And, when it turns, I want to have a chance, you know."