“The difference here,” observed Charles, “is, that I can stop when I like.” “Every gambler begins by thinking that he can stop when he likes, till he finds that habit and passion are too strong to be mastered. Oh, Charley! my Charley!” continued Ernest, with emotion, “much as I love you, my own only brother, I had rather lose you—rather see you laid in your grave, than living the life of a gambler!” “You shall never see me a gambler,—I mean, God helping me,” replied Charles, touched and gratified by his brother’s anxiety; “I will give up play after this evening.” “Do not go this evening; it is playing on the brink of temptation.” “Would you have me break an engagement?” “You can write, and make your excuse. To-morrow is Christmas day, when we should especially remember the mercy that opened to us the gate of salvation, and our duties as pilgrims and soldiers of the Cross. You would not spend this evening amongst those whom you yourself call citizens of Vanity Fair?” “I will not write, then; I will call—it is more courteous.” “More dangerous.” “I see that you have little trust in me,” said Charles, but without any emotion of anger. “Perhaps, Ernest, you know me better than I do myself: but I think that in this case I only do right to go; therefore it is not wilfully throwing myself into temptation.” Charles found Aleck Fitzwigram at the house of Leo Chamberlain, his friend, and after shaking hands with them both, told them that he had come to say that circumstances would prevent his joining them that evening. “Then you’ll come to-morrow—no, we dine out then, and the day after there’s the theatre; but on Saturday, at any rate, we shall expect you here; you know that you must give us our revenge.” Charles took the piece of gold out of his waistcoat pocket, and laid it upon the table. “You will need no revenge,” said he, smiling. “Hope, what do mean by that? This is some jest of yours! You don’t want us to think that you are not going to play with us again?” “I wish you to think the truth.” “Who on earth has put this absurdity into your head?” Charles would have liked far better if he could have said that no one had put a fear of gambling into his head, but that it was the result of his own reflections on the subject; for one of the causes of our so seldom benefiting by the experience of others, is the pride of the human heart, which hates the idea of being led. But, in the present case, no other truthful answer could be given, and Charles replied, “My brother has made me think differently upon this subject from what I did before.” “Your brother—Fontonore! Well, this is the best joke that ever I heard in my life! You, who have lived from your birth with those who know what life is, to allow yourself to be led by a boy who passed all his early years with tinkers, or ploughmen, or thieves; who is ignorant of all that a gentleman should know, and prudently avoids opening his lips for fear of speaking bad grammar!”