We are far from suggesting that Norwood's character as a “shot” had any concern with this mild verdict; but certain it is, his merits in this capacity were frequently remembered, and always with honorable mention. “No man plays ecarte better,” said Haggerstone, while as yet the Viscount's arrival was unknown, and as he discussed the rumors upon him before a group of listening Englishmen at the door of the “Club”. “No man plays ecarte better, nor with better luck!” added he, with a chuckle that was intended to convey a meaning beyond the mere words. “Has he been a large winner, then?” asked one of the bystanders, respectfully, looking to the Colonel for information; for, in a certain set, he was regarded as the most thoroughly conversant man with all the faults and follies of high life. “No man wins invariably, sir, except Brooke Morris, perhaps,” replied he, always happy at the opportunity to quote the name of a man of fashion in a tone of familiarity. “That was the Mo-Mo-Morris that ruined Hopeton, was n't it?” broke in Purvis, quite forgetting that the individual he addressed was reported to have a share in the transaction. Haggerstone, however, did not deign a reply, but puffed his cigar in perfect contempt of his questioner. “Who is this coming up here?” said one; “he looks like a new arrival. He is English, certainly; that frock has a London cut there's no mistaking.” “By Jove, it's Norwood!” cried Haggerstone, edging away, as he spoke, from the group. Meanwhile, the noble Viscount, a well-dressed, well-whiskered man, of about thirty, came leisurely forward, and touching his hat familiarly, said, “Ha! you here, Haggerstone! What is Florence doing?” “Pretty much as it always did, my Lord. I don't think its morals have improved since you knew it a few years ago.” “Or you wouldn't be here, Haggy, eh?” said the Viscount, laughing at his own joke. “Not suit your book if it took a virtuous turn, eh?” “I plead guilty, my Lord. I believe I do like to shoot folly as it flies.” “Ah, yes! And I've seen you taking a sitting shot at it too, Haggy,” said the other, with a heartier laugh, which, despite of the Colonel's efforts not to feel, brought a crimson flush to his cheek. “Is there any play going on, Haggy?” “Nothing that you would call play, my Lord; a little whist for Nap points, a little ecarte, a little piquet, and, now and then, we have a round game at Sabloukoff's.” “Poor old fellow! and he 's alive still? And where 's the Jariominski?” “Gone back to Russia.” “And Maretti?” “In Saint Angelo, I believe.” “And that little Frenchman what was his name? his father was a Marshal of the Empire.” “D'Acosta.” “The same. Where is he?” “Shot himself this spring.” “Pretty girl, his sister. What became of her?” “Some one told me that she had become a Soeur de Charite.” “What a pity! So they 're all broken up, I see.” “Completely so.” “Then what have you got in their place?”