that has been his. But now, as I stood opposite to him, behind the
croupier, I was refreshed by my sense of his wholesome durability.
Everything about him, except the amount of money he had been winning,
seemed moderate. Just as he was neither fat nor thin, so had his face
neither that extreme pallor nor that extreme redness which belongs to the
faces of seasoned gamblers: it was just a clear pink. And his eyes had
neither the unnatural brightness nor the unnatural dullness of the eyes
about him: they were ordinarily clear eyes, of an ordinary gray. His very
age was moderate: a putative thirty-six, not more. ("Not less," I would
have said in those days.) He assumed no air of nonchalance. He did not
deal out the cards as though they bored him, but he had no look of grim
concentration. I noticed that the removal of his cigar from his mouth
made never the least difference to his face, for he kept his lips pursed out
as steadily as ever when he was not smoking. And this constant pursing
of his lips seemed to denote just a pensive interest.

His bank was nearly done now; there were only a few cards left.
Opposite to him was a welter of party-colored counters that the croupier
had not yet had time to sort out and add to the rouleaux already made;
there were also a fair accumulation of notes and several little stacks of
gold--in all, not less than five-hundred pounds, certainly. Happy banker!
How easily had he won in a few minutes more than I, with utmost pains,
could win in many months! I wished I were he. His lucre seemed to
insult me personally. I disliked him, and yet I hoped he would not take
another bank. I hoped he would have the good sense to pocket his
winnings and go home. Deliberately to risk the loss of all those riches
would intensify the insult to me.

"Messieurs, la banque est aux encheres." There was some
brisk bidding while the croupier tore open and shuffled two new packs.