Major Moody was a gray-headed old man of about sixty, who played his cards with great attention, and never spoke a word,—­either then or at any other period of his life.  He was the most taciturn of men, and was known not at all to any of his companions.  It was rumored of him that he had a wife at home, whom he kept in moderate comfort on his winnings.  It seemed to be the sole desire of his heart to play with reckless, foolish young men, who up to a certain point did not care what they lost.  He was popular, as being always ready to oblige every one, and, as was frequently said of him, was the very soul of honor.  He certainly got no amusement from the play, working at it very hard,—­and very constantly.  No one ever saw him anywhere but at the club.  At eight o’clock he went home to dinner, let us hope to the wife of his bosom, and at eleven he returned, and remained as long as there were men to play with.  A tedious and unsatisfactory life he had, and it would have been well for him could his friends have procured on his behoof the comparative ease of a stool in a counting-house.  But, as no such Elysium was opened to him, the major went on accepting the smaller profits and the harder work of club life.  In what regiment he had been a major no one knew or cared to inquire.  He had been received as Major Moody for twenty years or more, and twenty years is surely time enough to settle a man’s claim to a majority without reference to the Army List.

“How are you, Major Moody?” asked Mountjoy.

“Not much to boast of.  I hope you’re pretty well, Captain Scarborough.”  Beyond that there was no word of salutation, and no reference to Mountjoy’s wonderful absence.

“What’s it to be:—­twos and tens?” said Captain Vignolles, arranging the cards and the chairs.

“Not for me,” said Mountjoy, who seemed to have been enveloped by a most unusual prudence.

“What! are you afraid,—­you who used to fear neither man nor devil?”

“There is so much in not being accustomed to it,” said Mountjoy.  “I haven’t played a game of whist since I don’t knew when.”

“Twos and tens is heavy against dummy,” said Major Moody.

“I’ll take dummy, if you like it,” said Vignolles.  Moody only looked at him.

“We’ll each have our own dummy, of course,” said Mountjoy.

“Just as you please,” said Vignolles.  “I’m host here, and of course will give way to anything you may propose.  What’s it to be, Scarborough?”

“Pounds and fives.  I shan’t play higher than that.”  There came across Mountjoy’s mind, as he stated the stakes for which he consented to play, a remembrance that in the old days he had always been called Captain Scarborough by this man who now left out the captain.  Of course he had fallen since that,—­fallen very low.  He ought to feel obliged to any man, who had in the old days been a member of the same club with him, who would now greet him with the familiarity of his unadorned name.  But the remembrance of the old sounds came back upon his ear; and the consciousness that, before his father’s treatment of him, he had been known to the world at large as Captain Scarborough, of Tretton.