“Thunder and turf, Fotheringham! You’ll lose him!” cried Nettlefold warningly. “Don’t stake the Terror!”
“Nonthenth! Do you take me, Belmanoir?”
“Certainly,” said the Duke, and threw.
“Oh, an you are in a gaming mood, I will play you for the right to try my hand with the dark beauty!” called Markham across the room.
“Against what?” asked Fortescue.
“Oh, what he wills!”
The Viscount had cast and lost, and his Grace won the second throw.
“It appears my luck is in,” he remarked. “I will stake my beauty against your estates, Markham.”
Sir Gregory shook his head, laughing.
“No, no! Keep the lady!”
“I intend to, my dear fellow. She is not your style. I begin to wonder whether she altogether suits my palate.” He drew out his snuffbox and offered it to his host, and the other men finding that he was proof against their railing, allowed the subject to drop.
In the course of the evening his Grace won three thousand guineas—two at ombre and one at dice—lost his coveted grey hunter and won him back again from Wilding, to whom he had fallen. He came away at three o’clock in company with Fortescue, both perfectly cool-headed, although his Grace, for his part, had imbibed a considerable quantity of burgundy, and more punch than any ordinary man could take without afterwards feeling very much the worse for wear.
As my Lord Avon’s door closed behind them, Tracy turned to his friend:
“Shall we walk, Frank?”
“Since our ways lie together, yes,” replied Fortescue, linking his arm in the Duke’s. “Down Brock Street and across the Circus is our quickest way.”
They strolled down the road for a few moments in silence, passing a linkman on the way. Fortescue bade him a cheery good night, which was answered in a very beery voice, but the Duke said nothing. Frank looked into his dark-browed face thoughtfully.
“You’ve had the luck, tonight, Tracy.”
“Moderately. I hoped entirely to repair last week’s losses.”
“You are in debt, I suppose?”
“I believe so.”
“To what extent, Tracy?”
“My dear fellow, I neither have, nor wish to have, the vaguest notion. Pray do not treat me to a sermon!”
“I shall not. I’ve said all I have to say on the subject.”
“Many times.”
“Yes—many times. And it has had no more effect upon you than if I had not spoken.”
“Less.”
“I daresay. I wish it were not so, for there’s good in you somewhere, Tracy.”
“By what strange process of reasoning do you arrive at that?”
“Well,” said Fortescue laughing, “there’s nearly always some good in the very worst of men. I count on that—and your kindness to me.”
“I should be interested to know when I have been kind to you—beyond the time when I was compelled to teach you to leave me and my affairs alone.”
“I was not referring to that occasion,” was the dry answer. “I had not seen your act in that light. I meant well over the episode.”
“You could not damn yourself more effectually than by saying that,” said his Grace calmly. “But we wander from the point. When have I done you an act of kindness?”
“You know very well. When you extricated me from that cursed sponging-house.”
“I remember now. Yes, that was good of me. I wonder why I did it?”
“ ’Tis what I want to know.”
“I suppose I must have had some sort of an affection for you. I would certainly never have done such a thing for anyone else.”
“Not even for your own brother!” said Frank sharply.
They had crossed the Circus and were walking down Gay Street now.
“Least of all for them,” came the placid response. “You are thinking of Andrew’s tragic act? Most entertaining, was it not?”
“You evidently found it so.”
“I did. I wanted to prolong the sensation, but my esteemed brother-in-law came to the young fool’s rescue.”
“Would you have assisted him?”
“In the end I fear I should have had to.”
“I believe there must be a kink in your brain!” cried Fortescue. “I cannot else account for your extraordinary conduct!”
“We Belmanoirs are all half-mad,” replied Tracy sweetly, “but I think that in my case it is merely concentrated evil.”
“I will not believe it! You have shown that you can behave differently! You do not try to strip me of all I possess—why all those unfortunate youths you play with?”
“You see, you possess so little,” the Duke excused himself.
“Neither do you sneer at me in your loathsome fashion. Why?”
“Because I have hardly ever any desire to. I like you.”
“Tare an’ ouns! you must like someone else in the world besides me?”
“I can think of no one. And I do not exactly worship the ground you tread on. The contemplation of my brothers appals me. I have loved various women, and shall no doubt love many more—”
“No, Tracy,” interposed Fortescue, “you have never loved a woman in your life. ’Tis that that might save you. I do not allude to the lustful passion you indulge in, but real love. For God’s sake Belmanoir, live clean!”
“Pray do not distress yourself, Frank. I am not worth it.”
“I choose to think that you are. I cannot but feel that if you had been loved as a boy—Your mother—”
“Did you ever see my mother?” inquired his Grace lazily.
“No—but—”
“Have you ever seen my sister?”
“Er—yes—”
“In a rage?”
“Really, I—”
“Because, if you have, you have seen my mother. Only she was ten times more violent. In fact, we were a pleasant party when we were all at home.”
“I understand.”
“Good Gad! I believe you are sorry for me?” cried Tracy scornfully.
“I am. Is it a presumption on my part?”
“My dear Frank, when I am sorry for myself you may be sorry too. Until then—”
“When that day comes I shall no longer pity you.”
“Very deep, Frank! You think I shall be on the road to recovery? A pretty conceit. Luckily, the happy moment has not yet come—and I do not think it is like to. We appear to have arrived.”
They were standing outside one of the tall houses where Fortescue lodged. He turned and grasped his friend’s shoulders.
“Tracy, give up this mad life you
