It turned
out afterwards that Wrengold proposed that particular game because
he had heard Coleyard observe at the Lotus Club the same afternoon
that it was a favourite amusement of his. Now, however, for a while
he objected to playing. He was a poor man, he said, and the rest
were all rich; why should he throw away the value of a dozen golden
sonnets just to add one more pinnacle to the gilded roofs of a
millionaire's palace? Besides, he was half-way through with an ode
he was inditing to Republican simplicity. The pristine austerity
of a democratic senatorial cottage had naturally inspired him with
memories of Dentatus, the Fabii, Camillus. But Wrengold, dimly aware
he was being made fun of somehow, insisted that the poet must take
a hand with the financiers. "You can pass, you know," he said, "as
often as you like; and you can stake low, or go it blind, according
as you're inclined to. It's a democratic game; every man decides for
himself how high he will play, except the banker; and you needn't
take bank unless you want it."
"Oh, if you insist upon it," Coleyard drawled out, with languid
reluctance, "I'll play, of course. I won't spoil your evening.
But remember, I'm a poet; I have strange inspirations."
The cards were "squeezers"--that is to say, had the suit and the
number of pips in each printed small in the corner, as well as over
the face, for ease of reference.
Pages:
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237