e made, the clink of
glass, the gurgling of the liquid, the pop of the soda-water cork had
a preternatural sharpness. He came back carrying a pink and glistening
tumbler. Mr. Ricardo had followed his movements with oblique, coyly
expectant yellow eyes, like a cat watching the preparation of a saucer
of milk, and the satisfied sound after he had drunk might have been a
slightly modified form of purring, very soft and deep in his throat. It
affected Schomberg unpleasantly as another example of something inhuman
in those men wherein lay the difficulty of dealing with them. A
spectre, a cat, an ape--there was a pretty association for a mere man to
remonstrate with, he reflected with an inward shudder; for Schomberg had
been overpowered, as it were, by his imagination, and his reason could
not react against that fanciful view of his guests. And it was not only
their appearance. The morals of Mr. Ricardo seemed to him to be pretty
much the morals of a cat. Too much. What sort of argument could a mere
man offer to a . . . or to a spectre, either! What the morals of a
spectre could be, Schomberg had no idea. Something dreadful, no
doubt. Compassion certainly had no place in them. As to the ape--well,
everybody knew what an ape was. It had no morals. Nothing could be more
hopeless.

Outwardly, however, having picked up the cigar which he had laid aside
to get the drink, with his thick fingers, one of them ornamented by a
gold ring, Schomberg smoked with moody composure. Facing him, Ricardo
blinked slowly for a time, then closed his eyes altogether, with the
placidity of the domestic cat dozing on the hearth-rug. In another
moment he opened them very wide, and seemed surprised to see Schomberg
there.

"You're having a very slack time today, aren't you?" he observed. "But
then this whole town is confoundedly slack, anyhow; and I've never faced
such a slack party at a table before. Come eleven o'clock, they begin to
talk of breaking up. What's the matter with them? Want to go to bed so
early, or what?"

"I reckon you don't lose a fortune by their wanting to go to bed," said
Schomberg, with sombre sarcasm.

"No," admitted Ricardo, with a grin that stretched his thin mouth from
ear to ear, giving a sudden glimpse of his white teeth. "Only, you see,
when I once start, I would play for nuts, for parched peas, for any
rubbish. I would play them for their souls. But these Dutchmen aren't
any good. They never seem to get warmed up pr