quibbling," I went on, " at the risk of exposing
myself to the suspicion of what is called
cant—which, of course, is saying something
that is moral, or religious, or improving——"

"Excuse me; the sayer being neither
moral nor religious, that is cant. And you
have saved me the trouble of coming to the
point; for I believe that, unconsciously,
you are at heart as great a gambler as any
of them; and—don't be offended—you
know the greatest rock is that air of self-
righteousness—' Take heed that ye
deceive not yourselves.'"

"Come, no profane quoting here," said
the youth, gravely.

"There is no profanity," I said, laughing;
"your quotation is not in Scripture."
I was in great vein now, and
began to feel myself a match for him.
"But supposing, now," I went on, " I
succeeded in interposing between two, or one
even, and their destruction, why I am
foolish enough to think it worth while
coming so far for that."

"For Grainger, here?" he sneered. " A
brand plucked from the burning. You are
the neophyte, it seems, Grainger. Well,
there is a class of missionary they call
' soupers,' and who have rather a suspicious
class of converts. You're genuine. You're
being brought to see the light, aren't you?
Seriously," he added, turning to me, "you
don't mean to tell us you have touched
that rocky ground?"

"Seriously," I replied, impatiently, " I
don't care to discuss such things with
you."

"With all my heart, though I dare say
our friend Grainger has been doing a little
bit of the new regeneration—the softening
of this stony heart, and all that. (There is
a regular dialect for all that, which I
profess myself not quite up to.) I can fancy
him saying to you, ' What can I do? I
am led on—dragged on. I have good
intentions. I was virtuous once, and I would
give worlds to be back in the old innocent
times—the fields, the green, the buttercup—
like you, in short.' Ha, ha!"

"Ha, ha!" roared the host. " Devilish
good."

It was so like what Grainger had been
saying, that I turned sharply and looked
at him with surprise. He was looking at
D'Eyncourt with quite a wicked glare.

"There is some devilish malignity
always in your ideas, D'Eyncourt," he
said—a speech that was certainly just and
nicely descriptive. For he might certainly
guess that I had, in my poor way and by
the grace of one greater than I was acting
through me, made some impression on
Grainger; and this artful ridicule would
be precisely a fashion that Satan himself
would have suggested for throwing him
back.

"Come away," said D'Eyncourt; " we've
had enough. Let us go in and see these
honest fellows counting their money. I
hope they have got a good bag to-night;
they work hard enough for it, God knows
—harder than many a fellow at home on
his sixpence a day, and deserve every coin
they get. Good luck to them! I hope
they've emptied many a fool's pocket."

As we went out Grainger whispered,
"You don't mind what that snarler says.
He'd sneer at his dead mother. I'm bad
enough, God knows——"

"Don't say a word, Grainger," I said,
taking his arm; " his speeches will have
very little effect on me."

We walked in to see this curious scene.
With all my prejudices, I own that there
is no such dramatic scene in the round of
modern plays—though, on second thoughts,
this is poor praise—as at the end of the
long and weary day to find "the band"
sitting round and counting their gains.
As soon as the last deal is over I know
what will come. In rush the hired bullies
in their tawdry liveries, carrying brass-
bound strong boxes and bags, and a large
case. Other emissaries emerge, and all,
as it were, fling themselves on the table.
Last arrive two or three cold " bank
managers," cruel looking men, with the cat-
like, clean-shaven, pitiless M. B., who,
having been at work all day, is now in at
the close, to superintend the finish, and, I
suppose, gloat over an unusual booty.
Everything here is more than
characteristic. The henchmen artfully draw a
sort of barrier of chairs, pretending to
draw them away from the table, in reality
a fence against me and other English
gentlemen, whom they sapiently think are full
of designs for pillage and sack, and note
their ridiculously suspicious looks. But
the robber naturally thinks every stranger
one of his cloth. I would not contaminate
my fingers with their gold, nor would I do
as I often see some of our virtuous English
do—go up obsequiously to " M. Le
Croupier," and ask him to change their fifty-
pound bank-note, which he does so
charmingly, " spilling" out five glistening rows
of gold in a second, and giving the full
exchange, so different from the cormorant
bankers in the town. " That gold, madam,