“If we lose this,” said Lynde, “we will make one more bet double, and then if we don’t win that we’ll quit.”
He was already out nearly three thousand dollars.
“Oh yes, indeed!
Only I think we ought to quit now.
Here goes two thousand if we don’t win.
Don’t you think that’s quite enough?
I haven’t brought you much luck, have I?”
“You are luck,” he whispered.
“All the luck I want.
One more.
Stand by me for one more try, will you?
If we win I’ll quit.”
The little ball clicked even as she nodded, and the croupier, paying out on a few small stacks here and there, raked all the rest solemnly into the receiving orifice, while murmurs of sympathetic dissatisfaction went up here and there.
“How much did they have on the board?” asked Miss Lanman of McKibben, in surprise.
“It must have been a great deal, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, two thousand dollars, perhaps.
That isn’t so high here, though.
People do plunge for as much as eight or ten thousand.
It all depends.” McKibben was in a belittling, depreciating mood.
“Oh yes, but not often, surely.”
“For the love of heavens, Polk!” exclaimed Rhees Grier, coming up and plucking at his sleeve; “if you want to give your money away give it to me.
I can gather it in just as well as that croupier, and I’ll go get a truck and haul it home, where it will do some good.
It’s perfectly terrible the way you are carrying on.”
Lynde took his loss with equanimity.
“Now to double it,” he observed, “and get all our losses back, or go downstairs and have a rarebit and some champagne.
What form of a present would please you best?—but never mind.
I know a souvenir for this occasion.”
He smiled and bought more gold.
Aileen stacked it up showily, if a little repentantly.
She did not quite approve of this—his plunging—and yet she did; she could not help sympathizing with the plunging spirit.
In a few moments it was on the board—the same combination, the same stacks, only doubled—four thousand all told.
The croupier called, the ball rolled and fell.
Barring three hundred dollars returned, the bank took it all.
“Well, now for a rarebit,” exclaimed Lynde, easily, turning to Lord, who stood behind him smiling.
“You haven’t a match, have you?
We’ve had a run of bad luck, that’s sure.”
Lynde was secretly the least bit disgruntled, for if he had won he had intended to take a portion of the winnings and put it in a necklace or some other gewgaw for Aileen.
Now he must pay for it.
Yet there was some satisfaction in having made an impression as a calm and indifferent, though heavy loser.
He gave Aileen his arm.
“Well, my lady,” he observed, “we didn’t win; but we had a little fun out of it, I hope?
That combination, if it had come out, would have set us up handsomely.
Better luck next time, eh?”
He smiled genially.
“Yes, but I was to have been your luck, and I wasn’t,” replied Aileen.
“You are all the luck I want, if you’re willing to be.
Come to the Richelieu to-morrow with me for lunch—will you?”
“Let me see,” replied Aileen, who, observing his ready and somewhat iron fervor, was doubtful.
“I can’t do that,” she said, finally,
“I have another engagement.”