got a little voice like a screw-driver. But for all that,
if I could get away from this cursed place, I would keep the girl in
sight--hang me if I would n't! I 'd cut the races--dash me if I would
n't! But I 'm in pawn, if you know what that means. I owe a beastly lot
of money at the inn, and that impudent little beggar of a landlord won't
let me out of his sight. The luck 's dead against me at those filthy
tables; I have n't won a farthing in three weeks. I wrote to my brother
the other day, and this morning I got an answer from him--a cursed,
canting letter of good advice, remarking that he had already paid my
debts seven times. It does n't happen to be seven; it 's only six, or
six and a half! Does he expect me to spend the rest of my life at the
Hotel de Hollande? Perhaps he would like me to engage as a waiter there
and pay it off by serving at the table d'hote. It would be convenient
for him the next time he comes abroad with his seven daughters and two
governesses. I hate the smell of their beastly table d'hote! You 're
sorry I 'm hard up? I 'm sure I 'm much obliged to you. Can you be of
any service? My dear fellow, if you are bent on throwing your money
about the place I 'm not the man to stop you." Bernard's winnings of the
previous night were burning a hole, as the phrase is, in his pocket. Ten
thousand francs had never before seemed to him so heavy a load to carry,
and to lighten the weight of his good luck by lending fifty pounds to
a less fortunate fellow-player was an operation that not only gratified
his good-nature but strongly commended itself to his conscience.
His conscience, however, made its conditions. "My dear Longueville,"
Lovelock went on, "I have always gone in for family feeling, early
associations, and all that sort of thing. That 's what made me confide
my difficulties to Dovedale. But, upon my honor, you remind me of the
good Samaritan, or that sort of person; you are fonder of me than my own
brother! I 'll take fifty pounds with pleasure, thank you, and you
shall have them again--at the earliest opportunity. My earliest
convenience--will that do? Damn it, it is a convenience, is n't it? You
make your conditions. My dear fellow, I accept them in advance. That
I 'm not to follow up Miss Evers--is that what you mean? Have you been
commissioned by the family to buy me off? It 's devilish cruel to take
advantage of my poverty! Though I 'm poor, I 'm honest. But I am honest,
my dear Longueville; t