one more pinnacle to the gilded roofs of a
millionaire's palace? Besides, he was half-way through with an ode
he was inditing to Republican simplicity. The pristine austerity
of a democratic senatorial cottage had naturally inspired him with
memories of Dentatus, the Fabii, Camillus. But Wrengold, dimly aware
he was being made fun of somehow, insisted that the poet must take
a hand with the financiers. "You can pass, you know," he said, "as
often as you like; and you can stake low, or go it blind, according
as you're inclined to. It's a democratic game; every man decides for
himself how high he will play, except the banker; and you needn't
take bank unless you want it."

"Oh, if you insist upon it," Coleyard drawled out, with languid
reluctance, "I'll play, of course. I won't spoil your evening.
But remember, I'm a poet; I have strange inspirations."

The cards were "squeezers"--that is to say, had the suit and the
number of pips in each printed small in the corner, as well as over
the face, for ease of reference. We played low at first. The poet
seldom staked; and when he did--a few pounds--he lost, with singular
persistence. He wanted to play for doubloons or sequins, and could
with difficulty be induced to condescend to dollars. Charles looked
across at him at last; the stakes by that time were fast rising
higher, and we played for ready money. Notes lay thick on the green
cloth. "Well," he murmured provokingly, "how about your inspiration?
Has Apollo deserted you?"

It was an unwonted flight of classical allusion for Charles, and I
confess it astonished me. (I discovered afterwards he had cribbed
it from a review in that evening's Critic.) But the poet smiled.

"No," he answered calmly, "I am waiting for one now. When it comes,
you may be sure you shall have the benefit of it."

Next round, Charles dealing and banking, the poet staked on his
card, unseen as usual. He staked like a gentleman. To our immense
astonishment he pulled out a roll of notes, and remarked, in a quiet
tone, "I have an inspiration now. _Half-hearted_ will do. I go five
thousand." That was dollars, of course; but it amounted to a
thousand pounds in English money--high play for an author.

Charles smiled and turned his card. The poet turned his--and won
a thousand.

"Good shot!" Charles murmured, pretending not to mind, though he
detests losing.

"Inspiration!" the poet mused, and looked once more abstracted.

Charles dealt again. Th