tured to warn him that such water was never "safe" in
these places. He said he had often heard that, but would risk it. I
remonstrated, but he was firm. "Alors," I told the waiter, "pour
Monsieur un verre de l'eau fraiche, et pour moi un demi blonde."

Pethel asked me to tell him who every one was. I told him no one was
any one in particular, and suggested that we should talk about
ourselves.

"You mean," he laughed, "that you want to know who the devil I am?"

I assured him that I had often heard of him. At this he was
unaffectedly pleased.

"But," I added, "it's always more interesting to hear a man talked
about by himself." And indeed, since he had NOT handed his winnings
over to me, I did hope he would at any rate give me some glimpses into
that "great character" of his. Full though his life had been, he
seemed but like a rather clever schoolboy out on a holiday. I wanted
to know more.

"That beer looks good," he admitted when the waiter came back. I asked
him to change his mind, but he shook his head, raised to his lips the
tumbler of water that had been placed before him, and meditatively
drank a deep draft. "I never," he then said, "touch alcohol of any
sort." He looked solemn; but all men do look solemn when they speak of
their own habits, whether positive or negative, and no matter how
trivial; and so, though I had really no warrant for not supposing him a
reclaimed drunkard, I dared ask him for what reason he abstained.

"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 sen