never again
mentioned his gout.

AN UNFAIR ADVANTAGE

I

James Peake and his wife, and Enoch Lovatt, his wife's half-sister's
husband, and Randolph Sneyd, the architect, were just finishing the
usual Saturday night game of solo whist in the drawing-room of Peake's
large new residence at Hillport, that unique suburb of Bursley. Ella
Peake, twenty-year-old daughter of the house, sat reading in an
arm-chair by the fire which blazed in the patent radiating grate. Peake
himself was banker, and he paid out silver and coppers at the rate of
sixpence a dozen for the brass counters handed to him by his wife and
Randolph Sneyd.

"I've made summat on you to-night, Lovatt," said Peake, with his broad
easy laugh, as he reckoned up Lovatt's counters. Enoch Lovatt's
principles and the prominence of his position at the Bursley Wesleyan
Chapel, though they did not prevent him from playing cards at his
sister-in-law's house, absolutely forbade that he should play for money,
and so it was always understood that the banker of the party should be
his financier, supplying him with counters and taking the chances of
gain or loss. By this kindly and ingenious arrangement Enoch Lovatt was
enabled to live at peace with his conscience while gratifying that
instinct for worldliness which the weekly visit to Peake's always
aroused from its seven-day slumber into a brief activity.

"Six shillings on my own; five and fourpence on you," said Peake.
"Lovatt, we've had a good night; no mistake." He laughed again, took
out his knife, and cut a fresh cigar.

"You don't think of your poor wife," said Mrs Peake, "who's lost over
three shillings," and she nudged Randolph Sneyd.

"Here, Nan," Peake answered quickly. "You shall have the lot." He
dropped the eleven and fourpence into the kitty-shell, and pushed it
across the table to her.

"Thank you, James," said Mrs Peake. "Ella, your father's given me eleven
and fourpence."

"Oh, father!" The long girl by the fire jumped up, suddenly alert. "Do
give me half-a-crown. You've no conception how hard up I am."

"You're a grasping little vixen, that's what you are. Come and give me a
light." He gazed affectionately at her smiling flushed face and tangled
hair.

When she had lighted his cigar, Ella furtively introduced her thin
fingers into his waistcoat-pocket, where he usually kept a reserve of
money against a possible failure of his trouser-pockets.

"May I?" she questioned, drawing out