"When I say I NEVER touch alcohol," he said hastily, in a
tone as of self-defense, "I mean that I don't touch it often, or, at any
rate--well, I never touch it when I'm gambling, you know. It--it takes the
edge off."

His tone did make me suspicious. For a moment I wondered
whether he had married the barmaid rather for what she symbolized than
for what in herself she was. But no, surely not; he had been only
nineteen years old. Nor in any way had he now, this steady, brisk,
clear-eyed fellow, the aspect of one who had since fallen.

"The edge off the excitement?" I asked.

"Rather. Of course that sort of excitement seems awfully stupid to
YOU; but--no use denying it--I do like a bit of a flutter, just
occasionally, you know. And one has to be in trim for it. Suppose a man
sat down dead-drunk to a game of chance, what fun would it be for him?
None. And it's only a question of degree. Soothe yourself ever so little
with alcohol, and you don't get QUITE the full sensation of
gambling. You do lose just a little something of the proper tremors
before a coup, the proper throes during a coup, the proper thrill of joy or
anguish after a coup. You're bound to, you know," he added, purposely
making this bathos when he saw me smiling at the heights to which he
had risen.

"And to-night," I asked, remembering his prosaically pensive
demeanor in taking the bank, "were you feeling these throes and thrills to
the utmost?"