Twenty minutes later, Mr. Wesson was looking somewhat ruefully at the
score sheet. "I owe you eighteen shillings," he said. "Shall I pay
you, now, or shall we settle up in a lump after we've finished?"

"What about stopping now?" said Spennie. "It's quite fine out."

"No, let's go on. I've nothing to do till dinner, and I'm sure you
haven't."

Spennie's conscience made one last effort. "You'd much better stop,
you know, Wesson, really," he said. "You can lose a frightful lot at
this game."

"My dear Spennie," said Wesson stiffly, "I can look after myself,
thanks. Of course, if you think you are risking too much, by all
means--"

"Oh, if _you_ don't mind," said Spennie, outraged, "I'm only too
frightfully pleased. Only, remember I warned you."

"I'll bear it in mind. By the way, before we start, care to make it a
sovereign a hundred?"

Spennie could not afford to play picquet for a sovereign a hundred, or
anything like it; but after his adversary's innuendo it was impossible
for a young gentleman of spirit to admit the humiliating fact. He
nodded.

* * * * *