“I thank you, Sir Marmaduke,” said the young man, with quiet dignity,” and I entreat you once again to excuse me....  I have never staked at cards, either mine own money or that of others.  I would prefer not to begin.”

“Meseems ... hic ... de Chavasse, that this ... this young friend of yours is a hic ... damned Puritan ...” came in ever thickening accents from Lord Walterton.

“I hope, Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse,” here interposed Endicott with much pompous dignity, “that your ... hem ... your young friend doth not desire to bring insinuations doubts, mayhap, against the honor of my house ... or of my friends!”

“Nay! nay! good Endicott,” said Sir Marmaduke, speaking in tones that were so conciliatory, so unlike his own quarrelsome temper, quick at taking offense, that Richard Lambert could not help wondering what was causing this change, “Master Lambert hath no such intention—­’pon my honor ...  He is young ... and ... and he misunderstands....  You see, my good Lambert,” he added, once more turning to the young man, and still speaking with unwonted kindness and patience, “you are covering yourself with ridicule and placing me—­who am your protector to-night—­in a very awkward position.  Had I known you were such a gaby I should have left you to go to bed alone.”

“Nay!  Sir Marmaduke,” here came in decisive accents from portly Mistress Endicott, “methinks ’tis you who misunderstand Master Lambert.  He is of a surety an honorable gentleman, and hath no desire to insult me, who have ne’er done him wrong, nor yet my friends by refusing a friendly game of cards in my house!”

She spoke very pointedly, causing her speech to seem like a menace, even though the words betokened gentleness and friendship.

Lambert’s scruples and his desire to please struggled hopelessly in his mind.  Mistress Endicott’s eye held him silent even while it urged him to speak.  What could he say?  Sir Marmaduke, toward whom he felt gratitude and respect, surely would not urge what he thought would be wrong for Lambert.

And if a chaste and pure woman did not disapprove of a game of primero among friends, what right had he to set up his own standard of right or wrong against hers?  What right had he to condemn what she approved?  To offend his generous employer, and to bring opprobrium and ridicule on himself which would of necessity redound against Sir Marmaduke also?

Vague instinct still entered a feeble protest, but reason and common sense and a certain undetermined feeling of what was due to himself socially—­poor country bumpkin!—­fought a hard battle too.

“I am right, am I not, good Master Lambert?” came in dulcet tones from the virtuous hostess, “that you would not really refuse a quiet game of cards with my friends, at my entreaty ... in my house?”

And Lambert, with a self-deprecatory sigh, and a shrug of the shoulders, said quietly: 

“I have no option, gracious mistress!”