'No,' he answered calmly, 'I am waiting for one now. When it comes, you may be sure you shall have the benefit of it.'
Next round, Charles dealing and banking, the poet staked on his card, unseen as usual. He staked like a gentleman. To our immense astonishment he pulled out a roll of notes, and remarked, in a quiet tone, 'I have an inspiration now. Half-hearted will do. I go five thousand.' That was dollars, of course; but it amounted to a thousand pounds in English money—high play for an author.
Charles smiled and turned his card. The poet turned his—and won a thousand.
'Good shot!' Charles murmured, pretending not to mind, though he detests losing.
'Inspiration!' the poet mused, and looked once more abstracted.
Charles dealt again. The poet watched the deal with boiled-fishy eyes. His thoughts were far away. His lips moved audibly. 'Myrtle, and kirtle, and hurtle,' he muttered. 'They'll do for three. Then there's turtle, meaning dove; and that finishes the possible. Laurel and coral make a very bad rhyme. Try myrtle; don't you think so?'
'Do you stake?' Charles asked, severely, interrupting his reverie.
The poet started. 'No, pass,' he replied, looking down at his card, and subsided into muttering. We caught a tremor of his lips again, and heard something like this: 'Not less but more republican than
