to the table, visibly affected. Others pretended this sort of thing was an old story to them.
A few of the more adventurous women borrowed coins from the men, and joined in the play. Arguments and misunderstandings arose, which Mr. Stacy's assistant urbanely settled. More of the men—Paddock among them—laid money on the table.
A buzz of excited conversation, punctuated now and then by a deathly silence as the wheel spun and the little ball hovered heart-breakingly, filled the room. Cheeks glowed red, eyes sparkled, the crush about the table increased. Spencer Meyrick himself risked from his endless store. Mr. Tom Stacy's place was in full swing.
Dick Minot caught Cynthia Meyrick's glance as she stood close beside Lord Harrowby. She seemed another girl to-night, grave rather than gay, her great brown eyes apparently looking into the future, wondering, fearing. As for Harrowby, he was a man transformed. Not for nothing was he the son of the sporting Earl of Raybrook—the peer who never failed to take a
