It was something to see him play. There was a sort of lounging elegance,--a half purpose-like energy, dashed with indolence,--a sense of power, blended with indifference,--a something that bespoke the caprice of genius, mingled with a spirit that seemed to whisper that, after all, “cannons” were only vanity, and “hazards” themselves but vexation of spirit. He was, though a little past his best years, a good- looking fellow,--a thought too pluffy, perhaps, and more than a thought too swaggering and pretentious; but somehow these same attributes did not detract from the display of certain athletic graces of which the game admits, for, after all, it was only Antinous fallen a little into flesh, and seen in his waistcoat. It was mainly to this accomplishment he owed the invitations he received to the villa. Charles Heathcote, fully convinced of his own superiority at the game, was piqued and irritated at the other's success; while Sir William was, perhaps, not sorry that his son should receive a slight lesson on the score of his self-esteem, particularly where the price should not be too costly. The billiard-room thus became each evening the resort of all in the villa. Thither May Leslie fetched her work, and Mrs. Morris her crochet needles, and Clara her book; while around the table itself were met young Heathcote, Lord Agincourt, O'Shea, and Layton. Of course the stake they played for was a mere trifle,--a mere nominal prize, rather intended to record victory than reward the victors,--just as certain taxes are maintained more for statistics than revenue,--and half-crowns changed hands without costing the loser an afterthought; so at least the spectators understood, and all but one believed. Her quiet and practised eye, however, detected in Charles Heathcote's manner something more significant than the hurt pride of a beaten player, and saw under all the external show of O'Shea's indifference a purpose-like energy, little likely to be evoked for a trifling stake. Under the pretext of marking the game, a duty for which she had offered her services, she was enabled to watch what went forward without attracting peculiar notice, and she could perceive how, from time to time, Charles and O'Shea would exchange a brief word as they passed,--sometimes a monosyllable, sometimes a nod,--and at such times the expression of Heathcote's face would denote an increased anxiety and irritation. It was while thus watching one evening, a chance phrase she overheard confirmed all her suspicions,--it was while bending down her head to show some peculiar stitch to May Leslie that she brought her ear to catch what passed. “This makes three hundred,” whispered Charles. “And fifty,” rejoined O'Shea, as cautiously. “Nothing of the kind,” answered Charles, angrily. “You 'll find I 'm right,” said the other, knocking the balls about to drown the words. “Are you for another game?” asked he, aloud.