“I’ve been presented.” Still Sir Anthony’s eyes dwelt on the unconscious Prudence. “Up from the country, are they? Now, neither has the look of it. Our young gentleman yonder”—very slightly he indicated Prudence with a movement of his quizzing-glass—“has all the air of a town beau.”
“Very modish, to be sure. He’ll have need of keen town wits if he plays with Jollyot.” Mr. Troubridge smiled a little, and looked towards the picquet table.
Prudence sat sideways at it, an arm laid along it, and one shapely leg stretched out before her. She wore a coat of dull gold brocade, with the skirts very full and stiffly whaleboned, and the great cuffs turned back to the elbow. There was much foaming lace at throat and wrists, and a jewelled buckle was placed above the black ribbon that confined her powdered locks in the nape of her neck. She was looking at the cards held in one hand, her face expressionless. There was a patch set at the corner of the firm mouth, and one high up on the cheekbone. Her other hand, with a glowing ring on it, lay lightly on the arm of her chair. As though conscious of the gaze upon her, she looked up suddenly, straight at Sir Anthony. A tinge of colour rose in her cheeks; involuntarily she smiled.
“Oh, do you know him?” asked Troubridge, surprised.
“We were introduced above stairs,” Sir Anthony answered, with a fine disregard for the truth, and went across the room to Prudence’s side. “Well met, my dear boy.” His hand pressed on Prudence’s shoulder to prevent her rising. “No, do not permit me to interrupt.”
At the sound of that lazy, pleasant voice a faint frown crossed Sir Francis’ face. He acknowledged Sir Anthony’s greeting only by a curt nod, and declared a point of five.
Sir Anthony stood still behind Prudence’s chair, and in silence watched the play through his eyeglass. The stakes had been raised at each new game; at the end of this one Sir Francis was most strangely a heavy loser. Either the young sprig from the country had played the game a-many times before, or else the Providence who guides the hands of novices had exerted herself most prodigiously on Mr. Merriot’s behalf. Sir Francis was disinclined to believe Mr. Merriot an adept: he had not the manner of it.
Sir Anthony moved at last, and spoke before Jollyot could suggest yet a fourth game, “Will you take a hand with me, Merriot?”
“I should be pleased, sir,” Prudence swept the little pile of guineas to one side.
There was nothing for Sir Francis to do but to go elsewhere. He gave up his seat to Fanshawe, and trusted he might have an evening with Mr. Merriot some time in the near future.
“Why, sir, I shall count myself fortunate,” said Prudence.
Sir Francis moved away to a group of men by the window. Prudence turned to find Sir Anthony shuffling the pack. “Will you name the stakes, sir?” she said.
“What you will,” Sir Anthony replied. “What were they with my friend, Jollyot?”
She told him indifferently enough.
“Do you make it a rule to play for so large a sum?” blandly inquired Sir Anthony.
“I make it a rule, sir, to play for whatever sum my opponent suggests,” was the quick answer.
The heavy lids lifted for a moment, and she saw the grey eyes keen. “You must needs have faith in your skill, Mr. Merriot.”
“In my luck I have, Sir Anthony.”
“I felicitate you. I will play you for the half of Jollyot’s stakes.”
“As you please, sir. Will you cut?”
It would not do to show a change of front now that the large gentleman had watched her at play with Sir Francis. Prudence fumbled a little at the cards, and displayed a beginner’s uncertainty. Sir Anthony seemed to be engrossed with his own hand, but as she hesitated once more over the five cards of her discard he glanced up, and drawled: “Oh, spare yourself the pains, my dear boy! I am no hawk.”
Prudence fenced cautiously; she was not quite sure what the gentleman would be at. “The pains of what, sir?”
“Of all this dissimulation,” said Sir Anthony, with a disarming smile. “I must suppose you were taught to play picquet in your cradle.”
Almost she gasped. It seemed as though John had reason when he said that large gentleman was awake for all his sleepiness. She laughed, and forebore to evade, judging her man with some shrewdness. “Nearly, sir, I confess. My father has a fondness for the game.”
“Has he indeed?” said Sir Anthony. “Now, what may have induced you to play the novice with my friend Jollyot, I wonder?”
“I have been about the world a little, Sir Anthony.”
“That I believe.” Leisurely Sir Anthony looked at the three cards that fell to his minor share. “It seems you lost no feathers in that bout.”
She laughed again. “Oh, I’m an ill pigeon for plucking, sir! I declare a point of five.”
“I concede it you, my fair youth.”
“A quarte may perhaps be good?”
“It depends, sir, on what heads it.”
“The King, Sir Anthony.”
“No good,” Sir Anthony said. “I hold a quarte to the Ace.”
“I am led to believe, sir, that three Kings won’t serve?”
“Quite right, my dear boy; they must give way to my three Aces.”
This was all in the grand manner. Prudence chuckled. “Oh, I’ve done then! My lead, and I count six, sir.”
The hand was played. As the cards were gathered up Sir Anthony said: “I take it so shrewd a youth stands in no need of a friendly warning?”
Certainly the enigmatic gentleman was developing a kindness for her. “You’re very kind, sir. I do not know why you should be at this trouble for me.” It was spoken with some warmth of gratitude.
“Nor I,” said Fanshawe indolently. “But you are not—in spite of those twenty years—of a great age,
