There is the long chair in which she lies nearly always; there is the cushion on which the tired head is leaned, a small beautifully-shaped head, and the sharp features are distinct on the dark velvet, for the lamp is on the mantelpiece, and the light falls full on the profile.  The curtains are drawn, and the eyes animate with gratitude when Mike enters with his roses, and after asking kindly questions he takes a vase, and filling it with water, places the flowers therein, and sets it on the table beside her.  There is her fire—­(few indeed are the days in summer when she is without it)—­the singing kettle suggests the homely tea, and the saucepan on the hearth the invalid.  There is her bookcase, set with poetry and religion, and in one corner are the yellow-backed French novels that Mike has given her.  They are the touches the most conclusive of reality in her life; and she often smiles, thinking how her friends will strive to explain how they came into her life when she is gone.

“How good of you to come and see me!  Tell me about yourself, what you have been doing.  I want to hear you talk.”

“Well, I’ve brought you this book; it is a lovely book—­you can read it—­I think you can read it, otherwise I should not have given it to you.”

He remained with her till seven, talking to her about hunting, shooting, literature, and card-playing.

“Now I must go,” he said, glancing at the clock.

“Oh, so soon,” exclaimed Miss Dudley, waking from her dream; “must you go?”

“I’m afraid I must; I haven’t dined yet.”

“And what are you going to do after dinner?  You are going to play cards.”

“How did you guess that?”

“I can’t say,” she said, laughing; “I think I can often guess your thoughts.”

And during the long drive to Piccadilly, and as he eat his sole and drank his Pomard, he dreamed of the hands he should hold, and of the risks he should run when the cards were bad.  His brain glowed with subtle combinations and surprises, and he longed to measure his strength against redoubtable antagonists.  The two great whist players, Longley and Lovegrove, were there.  He always felt jealous of Lovegrove’s play.  Lovegrove played an admirable game, always making the most of his cards.  But there was none of that dash, and almost miraculous flashes of imagination and decision which characterized Mike, and Mike felt that if he had the money on, and with Longley for a partner, he could play as he had never played before; and ignoring a young man whom he might have rooked at ecarte, and avoiding a rich old gentleman who loved his game of piquet, and on whom Mike was used to rely in the old days for his Sunday dinner (he used to say the old gentleman gave the best dinners in London; they always ran into a tenner), he sat down at the whist-table.  His partner played wretchedly, and though he had Longley and Lovegrove against him, he could not refrain from betting ten pounds on every rubber.  He played till the club closed, he played till he had reduced his balance at the bank to nineteen pounds.