“This is what they call country hospitality!” said Osmond, turning to Kester. “Condemned to go to bed at eleven-thirty, like so many virtuous peasants in an opera. No more brandy, no more cigars, no more billiards. Nothing but everlasting bed. How very good we are in the country!” Kester laughed. “I told you that you would soon grow tired of the rural districts,” he said. “The rural districts themselves are all very nice and proper. I’ve nothing to say against them,” said Mr. Osmond, as he sat down deliberately on the stairs, for they were all in the house by this time. “It’s the people who live in them that I complain of. To send your guests to bed at eleven-thirty against their will, and to decline a simple game of billiards with one of them because you’re afraid to acknowledge that he’s the better player of the two—can this be your old English hospitality?” “My dear Osmond, I will play you a game of billiards with pleasure, if your mind is so set on it,” said Lionel. “I had no idea that you were so entêté in the matter. Come along. I dare say the lamps are still alight.” “Spoken like a nobleman,” said Osmond, with tipsy gravity. “I accept your apology. Just order up some brandy and seltzer, there’s a good fellow. St. George, you’ll come and mark for us?” “With pleasure,” said Kester. “I’ll join you in two minutes.” He left them at the top of the stairs, they going towards the billiard-room. He was anxious to know whether Pierre had got back from London. Yes, there sat Pierre in the dressing-room, quiet, watchful, and alert as ever. “Everything gone off all right?” said Mr. St. George. “Everything has gone off quite right, sir,” said Pierre. “There will be no hitch as regards the telegram to-morrow morning, eh?” “None whatever, sir.” “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. “I don’t mind taking you,” said Kester, quickly. “Done!” said Osmond. Lionel could not repress a movement of annoyance. Both he and Osmond were good billiard-players, but he was the better of the two.