'Yes,' said Lord Almeric, gloating with flushed face on the blind backs

of the cards as they lay in a long row before him. 'Draw away!' 'Then here's for a wife and five thousand a year!' cried Pomeroy. 'One,

two, three--oh, hang and sink the cards!' he continued with a violent

execration, as he flung down the card he had drawn. 'Seven's the main! I

have no luck! Now, Mr. Parson, get on! Can you do better?' Mr. Thomasson, a damp flush on his brow, chose his card gingerly, and

turned it with trembling fingers. Mr. Pomeroy greeted it with a savage

oath, Lord Almeric with a yell of tipsy laughter. It was an eight.

'It is bad to be crabbed, but to be crabbed by a smug like you!' Mr.

Pomeroy cried churlishly. Then, 'Go on, man!' he said to his lordship.

'Don't keep us all night.' Lord Almeric, thus adjured, turned a card with a flourish. It was a

King!

'Fal-lal-lal, lal-lal-la!' he sang, rising with a sweep of the arm that

brought down two candlesticks. Then, seizing a glass and filling it from

the punch-bowl, 'Here's your health once more, my lady. And drink her,

you envious beggars! Drink her! You shall throw the stocking for us.

Lord, we'll have a right royal wedding! And then--' 'Don't you forget the five thousand,' said Pomeroy sulkily. He kept his

seat, his hands thrust deep into his breeches pockets; he looked the

picture of disappointment.

'Not I, dear lad! Not I! Lord, it is as safe as if your banker had it.

Just as safe!' 'Umph! She has not taken you yet!' Pomeroy muttered, watching him; and

his face relaxed. 'No, hang me! she has not!' he continued in a tone but

half audible. 'And it is even betting she will not. She might take you

drunk, but d--n me if she will take you sober!' And, cheered by the

reflection, he pulled the bowl to him, and, filling a glass, 'Here's to

her, my lord,' he said, raising it to his lips. 'But remember you have

only two days.' 'Two days!' my lord cried, reeling slightly; the last glass had been too

much for him. 'We'll be married in two days. See if we are not.' 'The Act notwithstanding?' Mr. Pomeroy said, with a sneer.

'Oh, sink the Act!' his lordship retorted. 'But where's--where's the

door? I shall go,' he continued, gazing vacantly about him, 'go to her

at once, and tell her--tell her I shall marry her! You--you fellows are

hiding the door! You are--you are all jealous! Oh, yes! Such a shape and

such eyes! You are jealous, hang you!' Mr. Pomeroy leaned forward and leered at the tutor. 'Shall we let him

go?' he whispered. 'It will mend somebody's chance. What say you,

Parson? You stand next. Make it six thousand instead of five, and I'll

see to it.' 'Let me go to her!' my lord hiccoughed. He was standing, holding by the

back of a chair. 'I tell you--I--where is she? You are jealous! That's

what you are! Jealous! She is fond of me--pretty charmer--and I shall

go to her!' But Mr. Thomasson shook his head; not so much because he shrank from the

outrage which the other contemplated with a grin, as because he now

wished Lord Almeric to succeed. He thought it possible and even likely

that the girl, dazzled by his title, would be willing to take the young

sprig of nobility. And the influence of the Doyley family was great.




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