"Yes, she was to have been mine; and I lost her--for what, Herrick? For a whim, for a wager, for the triumph of ousting a rival. You don't suppose I ever cared for that little French devil! But to cheat Philip Wharton out of his latest conquest--to win five thousand from Camden of the Guards, who swore that I had no chance against Wharton--for the mere dash and swagger of the thing, Herrick--to get myself more talked about than any man in London, I carried off the little lady who had made herself the rage of the hour, and tried to think that I was over head and ears in love with her. In love with her--with a woman who ate garlic at every meal, and swore strange oaths in Gascon! 'Pécaïre!' she used to cry--'Pécaïre!' in her southern twang--and I was ruining my fortune and my reputation for such a creature!" "You had your whim," sneered Durnford. "You won Camden's five thousand." "Every penny of which Chichinette devoured, with another five thousand to boot." "Naturally. But you had your fancy, and you got yourself more lampooned and caricatured than any man in England, except the king. You came next to his Majesty in the supremacy of ridicule. And you lost Lady Judith Walberton." "If she had cared for me she would have forgiven that passing scandal. A man must sow his wild oats." "You were supposed to have sowed yours before you fell in love with Lady Judith. I have always told you, Lavendale, that I honour that lady for her renunciation of you. You will not make me budge from that. If she had loved you less she might have more easily forgiven you." "Well, I can whistle her down the wind to prey at fortune. She has been wise after her generation, has married a rich old rake instead of a poor young one. A reformed rake, 'tis said, makes the best husband, and that's why the women are ever so ready to pardon sinners. I would have been good to her had she but trusted me, Herrick, after that escapade. There should not have been a happier wife in England. But 'tis past, 'tis done with, lad. Thank Heaven, there are passions worth living for besides love." "The passion of the gamester, for instance--to sit till three and four o'clock every morning at loo or faro!" suggested Herrick Durnford, with that easy, indifferent air of his, half-scornful, half-jocose, with which he made light of follies that he shared. "Ah, but there are keener pleasures than loo and faro," said Lavendale, with an earnest look; "there are higher stakes to play for than paltry hundreds and thousands, nobler prizes to be won--gains that would set a man on a level with the gods."