inal--Henry had observed Tom staring at the scenery through the
window, his coffee untasted, and tears in his rapt eyes. 'What's up?'
Henry had innocently inquired. Tom turned on him fiercely. 'Silly ass!'
Tom growled with scathing contempt. 'Can't you feel how beautiful it all
is?'

And this remark, too, Henry had received in silence.

'Do you reckon yourself a great artist?' Tom had asked, and Henry had
laughed. 'No, I'm not joking,' Tom had insisted. 'Do you honestly reckon
yourself a great artist? I reckon myself one. There's candour for you.
Now tell me, frankly.' There was a wonderful and rare charm in Tom's
manner as he uttered these words. 'I don't know,' Henry had replied.
'Yes, you do,' Tom had insisted. 'Speak the truth. I won't let it go any
further. Do you think yourself as big as George Eliot, for example?'
Henry had hesitated, forced into sincerity by Tom's persuasive and
serious tone. 'It's not a fair question,' Henry had said at length.
Whereupon Tom, without the least warning, had burst into loud laughter:
'My bold buccaneer, you take the cake. You always did. You always will.
There is something about you that is colossal, immense, and
magnificent.'

And this third remark also Henry had received in silence.

It was their second day at Monte Carlo, and Tom, after getting Henry's
card of admission for him, had left him in the gaming-rooms, and gone
off to the alleged Countess. The hour was only half-past eleven, and
none of the roulette tables was crowded; two of the trente-et-quarante
tables had not even begun to operate. For some minutes Henry watched a
roulette table, fascinated by the munificent style of the croupiers in
throwing five-franc pieces, louis, and bank-notes about the green cloth,
and the neat twist of the thumb and finger with which the chief croupier
spun the ball. There were thirty or forty persons round the table, all
solemn and intent, and most of them noting the sequence of winning
numbers on little cards. 'What fools!' thought Henry. 'They know the
Casino people make a profit of two thousand a day. They know the chances
are mathematically against them. And yet they expect to win!'

It was just at this point in his meditations upon the spectacle of human
foolishness that he felt the five-franc piece in his pocket. An idea
crossed his mind that he would stake it, merely in order to be able to
say that he had gambled at Monte Carlo. Absurd! How much more effective
to assert that