any scruples detaining me, I entered
with something of the severe, stern,
purpose with which a policeman enters a low
den of thieves and looks round searchingly
to see that no villany is hatching. He is
not contaminated by that association, for
he is doing his duty. So do I feel among
them, but not of them—with those croupiers,
the Fagins, Sikeses, and Dodgers of
the place, pursuing genteelly what is no
better than "cracking a crib." I would
give the Fagins and others, one half
less penal servitude than these rascals.
. . . Certainly it is the most curious
spectacle, far above any human interest. And
such wretched, little, mean, low glimpses.
The woman who pillages a wretched florin
and goes through a perfect row, is insulted
by the croupiers, is hustled by the servants
—all to get a miserable one-and-eight-
pence! A gold piece drops on the ground;
the owner will not hear of any one stooping
to look for it, and sternly keeps the space
clear about it till the servant comes with a
light. That fellow, too, would never succeed
in finding it; it would travel up his
sleeve, unless there was an honourable
understanding of a deduction for his
service of at least ten per cent. These
familiars thrive and fatten on the gamblers;
spoils pour in on them, in every
conceivable way. One encumbers the
successful gambler with obtrusive help about
his hat—a florin; another has a bag of old
gloves, which he pins down round the
table, when the play begins. These dirty
symbols keep places—a service to be
remunerated with florins. I look at the man on
(the high stool behind, who is the detective,
and whose duty it is to watch and measure
and pay, and, above all, support his
understrappers with the air of a sort of
disinterested bystander, who must interfere, at
the last moment, with his impartial testimony.
This is rather too good. What a
set!—so harmonious and consistent in all
their associations! "Gang" is the ruder
but more appropriate word. Not one of
them, I can see, likes me; they look at me
with distrust; they know what I think of
them, how I could expose them, and strip
them of some of their gains, if I chose. The
"black" man, as I call him, who is something
between a "betting man" and an
upper turnkey, overheard me directing the
young girl how to win, and the look of
distrust and dislike he gave me was
indescribable. He would like to have called up
two of his bullies in the gold lace, to have
hustled me out—if he dared. . . . At this
moment they were beside me, and he is staring
impudently into their faces—that gross
stare which only a Frenchman can give.

"Oh, Mr. Austen! You will help me,
as you did the other night!"

I looked a little grave. "That was
under protest," I said; "and for one
night only, as they say of the actors."

"But it is not that; it is not for the
money; it is for your miraculous system.
It is like magic."

"Give me your money," I said, "and
we will see. But you will understand—I
merely do this as an experiment, to oblige
a young lady."

The usual luck followed. I waited till
the colour had turned up four times in
succession, and then laid on the opposite.
We won—only a few francs—but quite
sufficient for her. I cannot say how elated
I was at this control of mere chance.

Ten o'clock.—O shame, humiliation!
that I should have been such a dupe and
fool! I could beat, lash myself. But I
must write—write, if only to justify myself.
That man did it on purpose, I know he
did; and that I should have trusted him!
. . . After they had gone, I somehow felt
myself in great spirits—a sort of elation and
a sense of happiness I have not known for
a long time. Grainger comes up. I think
he had been drinking a little.

"Every one," he says, "is talking of
your great luck. There is no system going
like yours."

"It is only the system of good sense,
Grainger," I say, in my banal stupidity.

"Then why not help me," he went on,
"as you helped that young girl?"

"Because," I said; "that is a different
matter. You are bound to me not to play."

"Well, leave me out of the business;
but I think you are bound to do something
for yourself and your family. A man that
wants a hundred pounds, and could turn
it by an hour's work, is sacrificing a little
too much to his principles; it's selfish, my
friend."

He said no more, but—shall I own it?—
those vile words began to ring in my ear
like a chime—"selfish! selfish!"—so it
seemed. A dazzling prospect seemed to
rush in on me. All our little debts,
overdue—baker and butcher, the clothes
for the children, for which my poor pet had
to go, with humiliation, to that coarse
Wilcox, " to beg for a little time." Selfish!
It was so—to expose my darling to that!
I might come home, not rich—no, I did
not want a hundred pounds, or two