The habit of throwing out his chest and speaking in a severe
voice stood him in good stead. With him, too, practice made perfect; and
he would probably have kept it up to the end, to the very last moment,
to the ultimate instant of breaking strain which would leave him
grovelling on the floor. To add to his secret trouble, he was at a loss
what to say. He found nothing else but the remark:
"I suppose you are fond of cards."
"What would you expect?" asked Ricardo in a simple, philosophical tone.
"It is likely I should not be?" Then, with sudden fire: "Fond of cards?
Ay, passionately!"
The effect of this outburst was augmented by the quiet lowering of the
eyelids, by a reserved pause as though this had been a confession of
another kind of love. Schomberg cudgelled his brains for a new topic,
but he could not find one. His usual scandalous gossip would not serve
this turn. That desperado did not know anyone anywhere within a thousand
miles. Schomberg was almost compelled to keep to the subject.
"I suppose you've always been so--from your early youth."
Ricardo's eyes remained cast down. His fingers toyed absently with the
pack on the table.
"I don't know that it was so early. I first got in the way of it playing
for tobacco--in forecastles of ships, you know--common sailor games. We
used to spend whole watches below at it, round a chest, under a
slush lamp.
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