He laughed, and I laughed too.  Bob was looked upon by all his friends as a bad case of woman-shy.  No woman, young or old, who had in any way crossed Bob’s orbit but had felt that fascination, delicious to all women, in the presence of: 

    A soul by honour schooled,
    A heart by passion ruled—­

but he never seemed to see it.  As my wife—­for I had been three years married and had two little Randolphs to show that both Katherine Blair and I knew what marriage was for—­never tired of saying, “Poor Bob!  He’s woman-blind, and it looks as though he would never get his sight in that direction.”

“Then again, Jim,” he continued in a tone of great seriousness, “there’s a little secret I have never let even you into.  The truth is I am not safe yet—­not safe to speak for the old house of Randolph & Randolph.  Yes, you may laugh—­you who are, and always have been, as staunch and steady as the old bronze John Harvard in the yard, you who know Monday mornings just what you are going to do Saturday nights and all the days and nights in between, and who always do it.  Jim, I have found since I have been over on the floor that the Southern gambling blood that made my grandfather, on one of his trips back from New York, though he had more land and slaves than he could use, stake his land and slaves—­yes, and grandmother’s too—­on a card-game, and—­lose, and change the whole face of the Brownley destiny—­those same gambling microbes are in my blood, and when they begin to claw and gnaw I want to do something; and, Jim”—­and the big brown eyes suddenly shot sparks—­“if those microbes ever get unleashed, there’ll be mischief to pay on the floor—­sure there will!”

Bob’s handsome head was thrown back; his thin nostrils dilated as though there was in them the breath of conflict.  The lips were drawn across the white teeth with just part enough to show their edges, and in the depths of the eyes was a dark-red blaze that somehow gave the impression one gets in looking down some long avenue of black at the instant a locomotive headlight rounds a curve at night.

Twice before, way back in our college days, I had had a peep at this gambling tempter of Bob’s.  Once in a poker game in our rooms, when a crowd of New York classmates tried to run him out of a hand by the sheer weight of coin.  And again at the Pequot House at New London on the eve of a varsity boat-race, when a Yale crowd shook a big wad of money and taunts at Bob until with a yell he left his usually well-leaded feet and frightened me, whose allowance was dollars to Bob’s cents, at the sum total of the bet-cards he signed before he cleared the room of Yale money and came to with a white face streaming with cold perspiration.  These events had passed out of my memory as the ordinary student breaks that any hot-blooded youth is liable to make in like circumstances.  As I looked at Bob that day, while he tried to tell me that the business of Randolph & Randolph would