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.’

Fleetwood scrutinized the cast of his features and the touch of his fingers on the crispy paper.

‘Come to another of these “green fields,"’ he returned briefly.  ’The game here is child’s play.’

Urging Virgin Luck not to quit his initiatory table, the captain reluctantly went at their heels.  Shortly before the tables were clad in mantles for the night, he reported to Livia one of the great cases of Virgin Luck; described it, from the silver piece to the big heap of notes, and drew on his envy of the fellow to sketch the indomitable coolness shown in following or in quitting a run.  ’That fellow it is, Fleetwood’s tag-rag; holds his head like a street-fiddler; Woodler or some name.  But there’s nothing to be done if we don’t cultivate him.  He must have pocketed a good three thousand and more.  They had a quarrel about calculations of chances, and Fleet ran the V up his forehead at a piece of impudence.  Fellow says some high-flying stuff; Fleet brightens like a Sunday chimney-sweep.  If I believed in Black Arts, upon my word!’

‘Russett is not usually managed with ease,’ the lady said.

Her placid observation was directed on the pair then descending the steps.

‘Be careful how you address, this gentleman,’ she counselled Abrane.  ’The name is not Woodier, I know.  It must be the right name or none.’

Livia’s fairest smile received them.  She heard the captain accosting the child of luck as Mr. Woodier, and she made a rustle in rising to take Fleetwood’s arm.