“Young Strinnit is coming down this afternoon,” said Clovis reflectively; “I dare say you won’t find it difficult to get him to back himself at billiards.  He plays a pretty useful game, but he’s not quite as good as he fancies he is.”

“I know one member of the party who can walk round him,” said Rex softly, an alert look coming into his eyes; “that cadaverous-looking Major who arrived last night.  I’ve seen him play at St. Moritz.  If I could get Strinnit to lay odds on himself against the Major the money would be safe in my pocket.  This looks like the good thing I’ve been watching and praying for.”

“Don’t be rash,” counselled Clovis, “Strinnit may play up to his self-imagined form once in a blue moon.”

“I intend to be rash,” said Rex quietly, and the look on his face corroborated his words.

“Are you all going to flock to the billiard-room?” asked Teresa Thundleford, after dinner, with an air of some disapproval and a good deal of annoyance.  “I can’t see what particular amusement you find in watching two men prodding little ivory balls about on a table.”

“Oh, well,” said her hostess, “it’s a way of passing the time, you know.”

“A very poor way, to my mind,” said Mrs. Thundleford; “now I was going to have shown all of you the photographs I took in Venice last summer.”

“You showed them to us last night,” said Mrs. Cuvering hastily.

“Those were the ones I took in Florence.  These are quite a different lot.”

“Oh, well, some time to-morrow we can look at them.  You can leave them down in the drawing-room, and then every one can have a look.”

“I should prefer to show them when you are all gathered together, as I have quite a lot of explanatory remarks to make, about Venetian art and architecture, on the same lines as my remarks last night on the Florentine galleries.  Also, there are some verses of mine that I should like to read you, on the rebuilding of the Campanile.  But, of course, if you all prefer to watch Major Latton and Mr. Strinnit knocking balls about on a table—­”

“They are both supposed to be first-rate players,” said the hostess.

“I have yet to learn that my verses and my art causerie are of second-rate quality,” said Mrs. Thundleford with acerbity.  “However, as you all seem bent on watching a silly game, there’s no more to be said.  I shall go upstairs and finish some writing.  Later on, perhaps, I will come down and join you.”

To one, at least, of the onlookers the game was anything but silly.  It was absorbing, exciting, exasperating, nerve-stretching, and finally it grew to be tragic.  The Major with the St. Moritz reputation was playing a long way below his form, young Strinnit was playing slightly above his, and had all the luck of the game as well.  From the very start the balls seemed possessed by a demon of contrariness; they trundled about complacently for one player, they would go nowhere for the other.