the individual, it is he who spreads the net for the mass.  She liquefies the brain of man; he petrifies or ossifies the heart.  From her comes craziness, from him perversity:  a more provocative and, on the whole, more contagious disease.  The gambler does not seek to lead his fellows into perdition; the snared of the Demon have pleasure in the act.  Hence our naturally interested forecasts of the contests between them:  for if he is beaten, as all must be at the close of an extended game with her, we have only to harden the brain against her allurements and we enter a clearer field.

Woodseer said to Fleetwood:  ’That ball has a look of a nymph running round and round till she changes to one of the Fates.’

‘We’ll have a run with her,’ said Fleetwood, keener for business than for metaphors—­at the moment.

He received gold for a bank-note.  Captain Abrane hurriedly begged a loan.  Both of them threw.  Neither of them threw on the six numbers Woodseer would have selected, and they lost.  He stated that the number of 17 had won before.  Abrane tried the transversal enclosing this favoured number.  ‘Of course!’ he cried, with foul resignation and a hostile glare:  the ball had seated itself and was grinning at him from the lowest of the stalls.

Fleetwood quitted the table-numbers to throw on Pair; he won, won again, pushed his luck and lost, dragging Abrane with him.  The giant varied his tone of acquiescence in Fortune’s whims:  ’Of course!  I ’ve only to fling!  Luck hangs right enough till I put down my stake.’

‘If the luck has gone three times, the chances . . . .’  Woodseer was rather inquiring than pronouncing. . . .  Lord Fleetwood cut him short.  ‘The chances are equally the contrary!’ and discomposed his argumentative mind.

As argument in such a place was impossible, he had a wild idea of example—­’just to see’—­; and though he smiled, his brain was liquefying.  Upon a calculation of the chances, merely for the humour of it, he laid a silver piece on the first six, which had been neglected.  They were now blest.  He laid his winnings on the numbed 17.  Who would have expected it? why, the player, surely!  Woodseer comported himself like a veteran:  he had proved that you can calculate the chances.  Instead of turning in triumph to Lord Fleetwood, he laid gold pieces to hug the number 17, and ten in the centre.  And it is the truth, he hoped then to lose and have done with it—­after proving his case.  The ball whirled, kicked, tried for seat in two, in three points, and entered 17.  The usual temporary wonderment flew round the table; and this number was courted in dread, avoided with apprehension.

Abrane let fly a mighty breath:  ‘Virgin, by Jove!’

Success was a small matter to Gower Woodseer.  He displayed his contempt of fortune by letting his heap of bank-notes lie on Impair, and he won.  Abrane bade him say ‘Maximum’ in a furious whisper.  He did so, as one at home with the word; and winning repeatedly, observed to Fleetwood:  ’Now I can understand what historians mean, in telling us of heroes rushing into the fray and vainly seeking death.  I always thought death was to be had, if you were in earnest.’