wther cleared a table, and rummaged
in the drawers for cards and dice, whilst Ringwood called for lemons
and sugar, and compounded a fiery bowl of _Kirschwasser_ punch. It was
quite clear we were to have a night of it. Darvel's declaration that
he would have no high play in his rooms, and would turn every one out
at midnight, was replied to by me with a boisterous shout of laughter,
in which I was vociferously joined by Lowther, who, to all appearance,
was more than half tipsy. We sat down to play for moderate stakes;
fortune favoured me at the expense of Ringwood and Lowther. The former
looked sulky, the latter became peevishly noisy and excited, cursed
his luck, and insisted on increasing the stakes. Darvel strongly
objected; as winner, I held myself bound to oppose him, and the
majority carried the day. The stakes were doubled, quadrupled, and
at last became extravagantly high. Presently in came a couple
more 'friends,' in full evening costume, white-waistcoated and
gold-buttoned, patent leather, starch and buckram from heel to
eyebrow. They were on their way to a rout at the Marchioness of
Montepulciano's, but, seeing light through Darvel's windows, came up
'just to see what was going on.' With great difficulty they were
prevailed upon to take a cigar and a hand at cards, and to disappoint
the Marchioness. It was I who, inspired by deep potations and
unbounded good fellowship, urged and insisted upon their stopping. My
three friends did not seem nearly so cordial in their solicitations,
and subsequently, when I came to think over the night's proceedings,
I remembered a look of vexation exchanged between them, upon the
entrance of the uninvited vultures who thus intruded for their share
of the spoil. Doubtless, the worthy trio would rather have kept me to
themselves. They suppressed their discontent, however; externally all
was honeyed cordiality and good feeling; the Bully made perpetual
bowls of punch, and I quaffed the blazing alcohol till I could
scarcely distinguish the pips on the cards. But scenes like these have
been too often described for their details to have much interest.
Enough, that at six o'clock the following morning I threw myself upon
my bed, fevered, frantic, and a beggar. I had given orders upon my
London agent for the very last farthing I possessed.

"Lowther, to all appearance the least sober and worst player of the
party, had been chief winner. Ringwood had won a little; Madame
Montepulciano'