case when fortune turned. Then, and for the first
time, the gambler's passion awoke in his heart, and the sting of
defeat sent its pangs through him. The prying, searching looks of the
by-standers, too, were a dreadful ordeal; for all were curious to see
how he bore his losses, and Dalton was no accomplished gamester who
could lose with all the impassive gravity of seeming indifference. Still
less was he gifted with that philosophy of the play-table that teaches
a timely retreat before adverse fortune. He knew nothing of those sage
maxims by which the regular gambler controls his temper and regulates
his conduct; nor had he learned the art by which good and sterling
qualities, the gifts of noble natures, can be brought into the service
of a low and degrading vice! Dalton, it must be owned, was what is
called "a bad loser,"--that is, he lost his temper with his money; and
the more steadily luck seemed against him the more determinedly did
he "back his fortune." Now doubling, now trebling his stake, he lost
considerable sums; till at last, as the hand of the clock stood within
a few minutes of the closing hour, he emptied the remainder of his bag
upon the table, and, without counting, set it all upon a card.

"Rouge perd et couleur!" cried the banker, and raked in the glittering
heap; and, amid a murmur of half-compassionate astonishment, Peter arose
from the table. Mrs. Ricketts and her suite were all in the ball-room,
but Dalton only remembered them when he had gained the open air. The
terrible shock of his reverse had overwhelmed all his faculties, and
almost stunned him to unconsciousness. At last he bethought him of his
guests; but it was some time before he could summon sufficient composure
of look to go in search of them. He had been so accustomed--to use his
own phrase--"to ride the winner," that he did n't know how to face the
company as a beaten man. He thought of all the glances of impertinent
pity his presence would call forth, and imagined the buzz of remark
and comment every line of his features would give rise to. Poor
Peter!--little knew he that such signs of sympathy are never given to
the very saddest of misfortunes, and that, in such a society, no one
wastes a thought upon his neighbor's reverses, except when they serve as
a guide to himself.

He did, indeed, overhear from time to time little broken sentences
like these: "The old fellow with the white moustache has had a squeeze
'to-night.'" "He caugh