“Thank you very much,” said Raymond, languidly.  “I know he bores you, and I am sure I don’t wonder at it; but one must be civil to one’s son-in-law that is to be.  No, you need not trouble yourself to invite him yet.  Bella can do it when she writes.  I suppose she does write to him sometimes.”

I looked across the table at Forrester.  This was the first time I had heard of Miss Raymond’s engagement.  He met my eye quite unconcernedly, pursuing with great interest his occupation of peeling walnuts and dropping them into Sherry.  It did not often happen to him to blush twice in the twenty-four hours.  Directly afterward we began to talk about pheasants and other things.

After coffee in the drawing-room Guy sat down to piquet with his uncle.  Raymond liked to utilize his evenings, and never played for nominal stakes.  He was the beau ideal of a card-player, certainly; no revolution or persistence of luck could ruffle the dead calm of his courteous face.  He would win the money of his nearest and dearest friend, or lose his own to an utter stranger with the same placidity.  To be sure, to a certain extent, he had enslaved Fortune; though he always played most loyally, and sometimes would forego an advantage he might fairly have claimed, his rare science made ultimate success scarcely doubtful.  He never touched a game of mere chance.

I heard a good story of him in Paris.  They were playing a game like Brag; the principle being that the players increase the stakes without seeing each other’s cards, till one refuses to go on and throws up, or shows his point.  Raymond was left in at last with one adversary; the stakes had mounted up to a sum that was fearful, and it was his choice to double or abattre.  Of course, it was of the last importance to discover whether the antagonist was strong or not; but the Frenchman’s face gave not the slightest sign.  He was beau joueur s’il en fut, and had lost two fair fortunes at play.  Raymond hesitated, looking steadily into his opponent’s eyes.  All at once he smiled and doubled instantly.  The other dared not go on; he showed his point, and lost.  They asked Raymond afterward how he could have detected any want of confidence to guide him in a face that looked like marble.

“I saw three drops of perspiration on his forehead,” he said; “and I knew my own hand was strong.”

Lady Catharine was resting on a sofa:  she looked tired and paler than usual, not in the least available for conversation.  Miss Raymond had nestled herself into the recesses of a huge arm-chair close to the fire—­she was as fond of warmth, when she could not get sunshine, as a tropical bird—­and Forrester was lounging on an ottoman behind her, so that his head almost touched her elbow.  When I caught scraps of their conversation it seemed to be turning on the most ordinary subjects; but even in these I should have felt lost—­I had been so long away from England—­so I contented myself with watching them, and wondering why discussions as to the merits of operas and inquiries after mutual acquaintances should make the fair cheeks hang out signals of distress so often as they did that evening.