“That also.”

“Very well, then; a quint, a tierce, fourteen aces, three kings, and eleven cards played, ma’am.”

Miss Grantham cast a frowning glance at the galaxy of court cards which Ravenscar spread before her eyes, and a very dubious glance at the back of the one card remaining in his hand. “Oh, the deuce! All hangs upon this, and I swear there’s nothing to tell me what I should keep!”

“Nothing at all,” he said.

“A diamond!” she said, throwing down the rest of her hand. “You lose,” said Ravenscar, exhibiting a small club. “Piqued, repiqued, and capotted!” groaned Lord Mablethorpe. “Deb, my dearest, I warned you to have nothing to do with Max! Do come away!”

“I am not so poor-spirited! Do you care to continue, sir?”

“With all my heart!” said Mr Ravenscar, gathering up the cards. “You are a good loser, Miss Grantham.”

“Oh, I don’t regard this little reverse, I assure you! I am not rolled up yet!”

As the night wore on, however, she began to go down heavily, as though Ravenscar, trifling with her at first, had decided to exert his skill against her. She thought the luck favoured him, but was forced to acknowledge him to be her master.

“You make me feel like a greenhorn!” she said lightly, when he robbed her of a pique. “Monstrous of you to have kept the spade-guard! I did not look for such usage, indeed!”

“No, you would have thrown the little spade on the slim chance of picking up an ace or a king, would you not?”

“Oh, I always gamble on slim chances—and rarely lose! But you are a cold gamester, Mr Ravenscar!”

“I don’t bet against the odds, I own,” he smiled, beckoning to a waiter. “You’ll take a glass of claret, Miss Grantham?”

“No, not I! Nothing but lemonade, I thank you. I need to have my wits about me in this contest. But this must be our last rubber. I see my aunt going down to the second supper, and judge it must be three o’clock at least.”