And every night now he played pontoon, that game of the Tommies, with Mrs. Bolton, gambling with sixpences. And again, in the gambling he was gone in a kind of unconsciousness, or blank intoxication, or intoxication of blankness, whatever it was. Connie could not bear to see him. But when she had gone to bed, he and Mrs. Bolton would gamble on till two and three in the morning, safely, and with strange lust. Mrs. Bolton was caught in the lust as much as Clifford: the more so, as she nearly always lost.
She told Connie one day: "I lost twenty-three shillings to Sir Clifford last night."
"And did he take the money from you?" asked Connie aghast.
"Why, of course, my Lady! Debt of honour!"
Connie expostulated roundly, and was angry with both of them. The upshot was, Sir Clifford raised Mrs. Bolton's wages a hundred a year, and she could gamble on that. Meanwhile it seemed to Connie, Clifford was really going deader.
She told him at length she was leaving on the seventeenth.
"Seventeenth!" he said. "And when will you be back?"
"By the twentieth of July at the latest."
"Yes! the twentieth of July."
Strangely and blankly he looked at her, with the vagueness of a child, but with the queer blank cunning of an old man.
"You won't let me down, now, will you?" he said.
"How?"
"While you're away. I mean, you're sure to come back?"
"I'm as sure as I can be of anything, that I shall come back."
"Yes! Well! Twentieth of July!"
He looked at her so strangely.
Yet he really wanted her to go. That was so curious. He wanted her to go, positively, to have her little adventures and perhaps come home pregnant, and all that. At the same time, he was afraid of her going.
She was quivering, watching her real opportunity for leaving him altogether, waiting till the time, herself, himself, should be ripe.
She sat and talked to the keeper of her going abroad.
"And then when I come back," she said, "I can tell Clifford I must leave him, And you and I can go away. They never need even
