As he ceased to speak, however, Milbanke took the plunge he had been contemplating all day. In the silence of the room, broken only by the faint, comfortable hissing of the peat in the fireplace and the rustling of the cards as Asshlin mechanically shuffled them, he pulled his chair forward and laid his clasped hands on the table. "Denis," he said in his thin, quiet voice, "I am sorry--very sorry to disappoint you, but I cannot play." Asshlin paused in the act of shuffling and laid the cards down. "What in the name of fortune are you talking about?" he asked. His tone was indulgent and amused; it was evident that the meaning in the other's words had not definitely reached him. "It is not a joke," Milbanke interposed quickly. "I cannot--I do not intend to play." Then for the first time a shadow of comprehension crossed Asshlin's face--but it was only a shadow. With a boisterous laugh, he leant forward and filled the empty glasses that stood upon the table, pushing one across to Milbanke. "Have a drop of port, man!" he cried. "Twill give you courage to cut." He lifted and drained his own glass, and setting it back upon the table, refilled it. But Milbanke remained immovable. His thin hands were still clasped, his pale face looked anxious. "Go on, James! You're not afraid of a drop of wine?" Again Asshlin laughed, but this time there was an unpleasant ring audible in his voice. Mechanically Milbanke lifted his glass to his lips. "No," he said with embarrassed deprecation, "no, I'm more afraid of your displeasure. I--I'm exceedingly sorry to disappoint you." But once more his host laughed. "Nonsense, man! I know your little scruples and your little conscience, and I'm not scared of either. Never meet the devil half way! He covers the ground too quickly as it is." He caught up the cards again, and forming them into a pack, held them out. "Cut!" he said laconically. Milbanke drew back, and his lips came together, in a thin line. "Come on! Cut!" The colour of Asshlin's face became a shade deeper. Still the other sat rigidly still. For a moment their eyes held each other; then suddenly the blood surged into Asshlin's neck and face. "Do you mean to say that you refuse to play?" he asked slowly. "That you refuse to give me my revenge?" Milbanke met the attack unsteadily. "My dear Denis----" But before the words had left his lips, Asshlin flung the cards upon the table with a force that sent a score of them flying across the room. "And may I ask you for your reasons?" he demanded with alarming calm. Milbanke fenced. "I do not wish to play." "And I don't wish to be treated as a fool." The other altered his attitude. "My dear Denis, you surely acknowledge the right of free will? I do not wish to play cards, and therefore beg to be excused. What could be simpler?" His manner was slightly perturbed, his speech hasty. There was the suggestion of a sleeping volcano in his host's unnatural calm.