Mrs. Verrall shrugged her shoulders with indifference. She had never lost her bloom from any such cause. Maria found--or Margery did for her--that the fall had shaken her more than was expedient. After all, a medical man had to be called in. Illness supervened. It was not a very serious illness, and not at all dangerous; but it had the effect of detaining them at Homburg. Maria lay in bed, and George spent most of his time with the Verralls. With Mr. Verrall chiefly. Especially in an evening. George would go out, sometimes before dinner, sometimes after it, and come home so late that he did not venture into Maria's room to say good night to her. Since her illness he had occupied an adjoining chamber. It did Maria no good: she would grow flushed, excited, heated: and when George did come in, he would look flushed and excited also. "But, George, where do you stay so late?" "Only with Verrall." "You look so hot. I am sure you are feverish." "The rooms were very hot. We have been watching them play. Good night, darling. I wish you were well!" _Watching_ them play! It is your first deceit to your wife, George Godolphin; and, rely upon it, no good will come of it. Mr. Verrall had introduced George to the dangerous gaming-tables; had contrived to imbue him with a liking for the insidious vice. Did he do so with--as our law terms express it--malice aforethought? Let the response lie with Mr. Verrall. On the very first evening that they were together, the day of the slight accident to Maria, Mr. Verrall asked George to dine with him; and he afterwards took him to the tables. George did not play that evening; but he grew excited, watching others play. Heavy stakes were lost and won; evil passions were called forth; avarice, hatred, despair. Mr. Verrall played for a small sum; and won. "It whiles away an hour or two," he carelessly remarked to George, as they were leaving. "And one can take care of one's self." "All can't take care of themselves, apparently," answered George Godolphin. "Did you observe that haggard-looking Englishman, leaning against the wall and biting his nails when his money had gone? The expression of that man's face will haunt me for a week to come. Those are the men who commit suicide." Mr. Verrall smiled, half-mockingly. "Suicide! Not they," he answered. "The man will be there to-morrow evening, refeathered." "I never felt more pity for any one in my life," continued George. "There was despair in his face, if I ever saw despair. I could have found in my heart to go up and offer him my purse; only I knew it would be staked the next moment at the table." "You did not know him, then?" "No." Mr. Verrall mentioned the man's name, and George felt momentarily surprised. He was a noted baronet's eldest son. The next evening came round. Maria was confined to her bed then, and George was a gentleman at large. A gentleman at large to be pounced upon by Mr. Verrall. He came--Verrall--and carried George off again to dinner.