d of his own superiority
at the game, was piqued and irritated at the other's success; while Sir
William was, perhaps, not sorry that his son should receive a slight
lesson on the score of his self-esteem, particularly where the price
should not be too costly. The billiard-room thus became each evening
the resort of all in the villa. Thither May Leslie fetched her work, and
Mrs. Morris her crochet needles, and Clara her book; while around
the table itself were met young Heathcote, Lord Agincourt, O'Shea, and
Layton. Of course the stake they played for was a mere trifle,--a
mere nominal prize, rather intended to record victory than reward the
victors,--just as certain taxes are maintained more for statistics than
revenue,--and half-crowns changed hands without costing the loser an
afterthought; so at least the spectators understood, and all but one
believed. Her quiet and practised eye, however, detected in Charles
Heathcote's manner something more significant than the hurt pride of
a beaten player, and saw under all the external show of O'Shea's
indifference a purpose-like energy, little likely to be evoked for a
trifling stake. Under the pretext of marking the game, a duty for which
she had offered her services, she was enabled to watch what went forward
without attracting peculiar notice, and she could perceive how, from
time to time, Charles and O'Shea would exchange a brief word as they
passed,--sometimes a monosyllable, sometimes a nod,--and at such times
the expression of Heathcote's face would denote an increased anxiety and
irritation. It was while thus watching one evening, a chance phrase she
overheard confirmed all her suspicions,--it was while bending down her
head to show some peculiar stitch to May Leslie that she brought her ear
to catch what passed.

"This makes three hundred," whispered Charles.

"And fifty," rejoined O'Shea, as cautiously.

"Nothing of the kind," answered Charles, angrily.

"You 'll find I 'm right," said the other, knocking the balls about to
drown the words. "Are you for another game?" asked he, aloud.

"No; I 've bad enough of it," said Charles, impatiently, as he drew out
his cigar-case,--trying to cover his irritation by searching for a cigar
to his liking.

"I 'm your man, Inch-o'-brogue," broke in Agincourt; for it was by this
impertinent travesty of the name of his borough he usually called him.

"What, isn't the pocket-money all gone yet?" said the other,
contemptuousl