This however was a point which Osmond, who was proud of his ability with the cue, would never concede. With Lionel billiard-playing was an easy, natural gift; with Osmond it was the result of intense study and application. With the former it seemed the easiest thing in the world to play well—with the latter one of the most difficult. They had played much together during Osmond’s visit to Park Newton, but Osmond could never lose with equanimity. He became disagreeable and quarrelsome the moment the game began to go against him, and, rather than have a scene under his own roof, Lionel would often play carelessly and allow his opponent to win game after game. Such had been his intention in the present case till Kester foolishly accepted Osmond’s bet. After that, to have lost the game would have been to lose Kester’s money also; and, foolish as was the bet, Lionel did not feel disposed to let Osmond benefit by it. Besides, to win Osmond’s money was to touch him in his only vulnerable point, and it seemed to Lionel that he fully deserved to be made to smart. The game began and went on with varying success. Osmond had drank far too much wine to play well, and Lionel, in a mood of utter indifference, missed stroke after stroke in a way that made Kester groan inwardly with vexation. Lionel, in truth, was disgusted with himself and disgusted with his opponent. “I’d far sooner follow the plough all my life on Gatehouse Farm, than be condemned to associate very much with men like this one,” he said to himself. “And yet the world calls him a gentleman.” “Call the game, St. George,” cried Osmond, in his most insolent tone. “Seventy-five—fifty-two, and your royal highness to play,” said Kester. “None of your sneers,” said Osmond. “Seventy-five—fifty-two, eh?—Well, put me on three more—and three more—very carefully. A miss, by Jove! Ought to have had that middle pocket.” “Fifty-two—eighty-one,” called St. George. “How does your ten pounds look now, eh?” asked Osmond, with a chuckle. “Not very rosy, I must confess,” said Kester, with a shrug of his shoulders, and an appealing glance at his cousin. “I hope you are prepared to pay up if you lose,” said Osmond, insolently. Kester started to his feet, but Lionel laid a hand on his shoulder. “The game is not lost yet, Mr. Osmond,” he said, coldly, but courteously. “I guess it’s in a dying state as far as you’re concerned,” said Osmond, coughing his little effeminate cough. Lionel played and made a brilliant break of thirty. “Eighty-one—eighty-two,” called Kester, and there was a triumphant ring in his voice as he did so. Osmond, white with the rage he could not hide, said nothing. He laid down his cigar, chalked his cue carefully, played, and missed. “Just like my luck!” he cried, with an oath. “Dering, you might give a fellow something decent to smoke,” he added, as he flung his cigar into the grate. “The cigars are good ones. I smoke them myself,” said Lionel, quietly.