"You can do every blamed thing you like in this establishment," he said to them generally; "but I’m darned if I’ll have any fraycars, and that’s plain truth!" "It’s all right, Barney; only a little high spirits. Boys will be boys!" said a tiny old man from the edge of the crowd. And so the trouble ended. The tumult took place near the door of a large room, which throughout the evening had been a haven of great interest. Geoffrey, parting from his host, entered the room. June flew ahead, curious to see what was doing at the green tables. She noted the faces which fringed the games, and was shocked by their expressions. Greed, cupidity, selfishness, weakness, brutal excitement, sordid delight, mean disappointment were pictured there. Horrible! It was the card-room. The place was packed to stifling. Roulette, baccarat, and bridge were hard a-swing. Gambling was no new sight to Geoffrey Season, but never before had he seen such greedy rabble as that, or such extravagant, reckless stakes. It was an occasion of unscrupulous business. Old and young, men and maidens, crowded round the tables primed with the one desire--to make. Mammon was their king. There was no refinement or enjoyment about that business; it was mere greediness on a very large scale. Eyes, fascinated, followed the running of the ball, the placing of the money, the turn and manipulation of the cards, the sweeps and pushes of bankers croups. The excitement was tense. Now and again hurried murmurs, excited comments, soft hysterical laughter, contradictions and brief disputes, broke the general silence. Heigho! It was a sight for the cynical. If the devil has no humour, he misses a lot of fun. Young girls, hardly old enough for their education to be "finished," were fingering piles of gold, and placing coins with calculation, according to some "system." They had completed their education at Monte Carlo. An elderly man was the lucky one--if luck is really the word. He neither smiled nor frowned, whatever his fortune might be; but calmly paid his losses and as calmly took his gains--his calmness, either way, was absolute. Footmen came and went, carrying trays and glasses, but were not especially welcomed. A young man with waved hair and a pose--a forgotten ballad-writer, his fame had flickered and gone out--happened to be standing beside Geoffrey. His eyes were alight with monetary desire. "A sight well worth sinning for, Season," he said, with a nod at the piles of gold and paper scattered about the board. Geoffrey nodded in idle agreement. The wealth displayed represented thousands of pounds. June kissed his cheek. "Yet with all that wealth there is actual starvation not an eighth of a mile from here," he said in obedience to her kiss, her command. The poseur turned and stared. He gaped with surprise. "Good Lord, Season! You ought to be a curate." "It is, unfortunately, only the truth."