She was looking more than ever like a lovely flower, with a turquoise collar round her throat, and real forget-me-nots fastened by diamonds in her hair. For some minutes William Massarene, who had slept through the French comedy, and was still drowsy, did not become sensible of what was taking place in his drawing-room. But when the shouts and laughter of the merry gamblers reached his ear and he realized with difficulty what was taking place, a heavy frown, such as Kerosene City had learned to dread, stole on his brows, and a startled horror opened wide his eyes. Play! Play under his roof! All his Protestant and Puritan soul awoke. A large portion of his earliest gains had been made by the miners and navvies and cowboys who had gathered to stake their dollars in the back den of his shop in Kerosene City; and later on he had made millions by his ownership of private hells in larger towns of the United States; and the very thought of gambling was odious to him because he felt that these were portions of his past on which no light must ever shine. He felt that he owed it to the conscience which he had acquired with his London clothes and his English horses to prohibit all kinds of play, however innocent, in his own drawing-rooms. He crossed the room and, nervously approaching the leader of the band, ventured to murmur close to her ivory shoulder: “You never said you meant to play, Lady Kenilworth. I can’t have any play--I can’t indeed--in my house.” His tone was timid and imploring. He was frightened at his own temerity, and grew grey with terror as he spoke. She turned her head and transfixed him with the imperious challenge of her glance. “What are you talking about, my good man?” she said in her clearest and unkindest tone. “It is not your house when I’m in it.” “But I can’t allow play,” he murmured, with a gasp. “It’s against my principles.” “Don’t talk rot, Billy!” she cried with impatience. “Who cares about your principles? Keep them for the hustings.” Then she turned the ivory shoulder on him again, and, amidst the vociferous laughter of the circle of players, William Massarene, feeling that he had made a fool of himself, hastily and humbly retreated. The merriment pealed in louder ecstasy up to the beautiful painted ceiling, as she cried after the retreating figure: “You go to bed, Billy--go to bed! Or we sha’n’t let you dine with us to-morrow night!” “You’re rather rough on the poor beast, Lady Kenny,” said one of the players who was next her. “Billy’s like a Cairo donkey--he must feel the goad and be gagged,” replied Mouse, sweeping her counters together with a rapacious grace like a hawk’s circling flight. Then the little ball ran about in its momentous gyrations, and the counters changed hands, and the game went on all the giddier, all the merrier, because “Billy thought it improper.”