“Fifty pounds a week, I’ve heard say; but people tell such lies.  Even fifty pounds a week won’t hold out if he goes on like that.  What I maintain is that it isn’t good poker.  For one thing, I object to ‘straddling’ altogether; it’s simply a stupid way of raising the stakes; of course, the straddler has the advantage of coming in last, but then look at the disadvantage of having to bet first.  No, I don’t object to betting before the draw; that’s sensible; there’s some skill and judgment in that; but straddling is simply stupid.  You ought to make it easy for every one to come in; that’s the proper game; frighten them out afterwards if you can.”  And then he added, gloomily, “That fellow Moore is a regular bull in a china-shop.”

“I suspect he has been raking over a few of your chips, Bertie,” his companion said, with a placid grin.

Just as he was speaking, Lionel entered the room, and, having ordered some supper, took a seat at the table.  One of those young gentlemen, throwing away his toothpick, came and sat down opposite him.

“Big house to-night, as usual?” he asked.

“Full,” was the answer.  “I dare say when the archangel blows his trump, “The Squire’s Daughter” will still be advertised in the bills all over the town.  I don’t see why it should stop before then.”

“It would be a sudden change for the company, wouldn’t it?” the young man on the other side of the table said.  “Fancy, now, a music-hall singer—­no disrespect to you, Moore—­I mean a music-hall comic—­fancy his finding himself all at once in heaven; don’t you think he’d feel deuced awkward?  He wouldn’t be quite at home, would he?—­want to get back to Mr. Chairman and the chorus in the gallery, eh, what?—­’pon my soul, it would make a capital picture if you could get a fellow with plenty of imagination to do it—­quite tragic, don’t you know—­you’d have the poor devil’s face just full of misery—­not knowing where to go or what to do—­”

“The British public would be inclined to rise and rend that painter,” said Lionel, carelessly; this young man was useful as a poker-player, but otherwise not interesting.

Two or three members now came in; and by the time Lionel had finished his frugal supper there was a chosen band of five ready to go up-stairs and set to work with the cards.  There was some ordering of lemon-squashes and further cigarettes; new packs were brought by the waiter; the players took their places; and the game was opened.  With a sixpenny “ante” and a ten-shilling “limit,” the amusement could have been kept mild enough by any one who preferred it should remain so.

But the usual thing happened.  Now and again a fierce fight would ensue between two good hands, and that seemed to arouse a spirit of general emulation and eagerness; the play grew more bold; bets apart from the game were laid by individual players between themselves.  The putting up of the “ante” became a mere farce, for every one came in as a matter of course, even if he had to draw five cards; and already the piles of chips on the table had undergone serious diminution or augmentation—­in the latter case there was a glimmer of gold among the bits of ivory.  There was no visible excitement, however; perhaps a player caught bluffing might smile a little—­that was all.