in her life; and she often
smiles, thinking how her friends will strive to explain how they came
into her life when she is gone.

"How good of you to come and see me! Tell me about yourself, what you
have been doing. I want to hear you talk."

"Well, I've brought you this book; it is a lovely book--you can read
it--I think you can read it, otherwise I should not have given it to
you."

He remained with her till seven, talking to her about hunting,
shooting, literature, and card-playing.

"Now I must go," he said, glancing at the clock.

"Oh, so soon," exclaimed Miss Dudley, waking from her dream; "must
you go?"

"I'm afraid I must; I haven't dined yet."

"And what are you going to do after dinner? You are going to play
cards."

"How did you guess that?"

"I can't say," she said, laughing; "I think I can often guess your
thoughts."

And during the long drive to Piccadilly, and as he eat his sole and
drank his Pomard, he dreamed of the hands he should hold, and of the
risks he should run when the cards were bad. His brain glowed with
subtle combinations and surprises, and he longed to measure his
strength against redoubtable antagonists. The two great whist
players, Longley and Lovegrove, were there. He always felt jealous of
Lovegrove's play. Lovegrove played an admirable game, always making
the most of his cards. But there was none of that dash, and almost
miraculous flashes of imagination and decision which characterized
Mike, and Mike felt that if he had the money on, and with Longley for
a partner, he could play as he had never played before; and ignoring
a young man whom he might have rooked at ecarte, and avoiding a rich
old gentleman who loved his game of piquet, and on whom Mike was used
to rely in the old days for his Sunday dinner (he used to say the old
gentleman gave the best dinners in London; they always ran into a
tenner), he sat down at the whist-table. His partner played
wretchedly, and though he had Longley and Lovegrove against him, he
could not refrain from betting ten pounds on every rubber. He played
till the club closed, he played till he had reduced his balance at
the bank to nineteen pounds.

Haunted by the five of clubs, which on one occasion he should have
played and did not, he walked till he came to the Haymarket. Then he
stopped. What could he do? All the life of idleness and luxury which
he had so long enjoyed faded like a dream, and the spectre of cheap
lodgings and daily