tiveness that seemed to lie behind his most observant attention, was acting, watching, speaking with that excited narrow consciousness which reminds one of an animal with fierce eyes and retractile claws.
Lydgate, by betting on his own strokes, had won sixteen pounds; but young Hawley’s arrival had changed the poise of things. He made first-rate strokes himself, and began to bet against Lydgate’s strokes, the strain of whose nerves was thus changed from simple confidence in his own movements to defying another person’s doubt in them. The defiance was more exciting than the confidence, but it was less sure. He continued to bet on his own play, but began often to fail. Still he went on, for his mind was as utterly narrowed into that precipitous crevice of play as if he had been the most ignorant lounger there. Fred observed that Lydgate was losing fast, and found himself in the new situation of puzzling his brains to think of some device by which, without being offensive, he could withdraw Lydgate’s attention, and perhaps suggest to him a reason for quitting the room. He saw that others were observing Lydgate’s strange unlikeness to himself, and it occurred to him that merely to touch his elbow and call him aside for a moment might rouse him from his absorption. He could think of nothing cleverer than the daring improbability of saying that he wanted to see Rosy, and wished to know if she were at home this evening; and he was going desperately to carry out this weak device, when a waiter came up to him with a message, saying that Mr Farebrother was below, and begged to speak with him.
Fred was surprised, not quite comfortably, but sending word that he would be down immediately, he went with a new impulse up to Lydgate, said, “Can I speak to you a moment?” and drew him aside.
“Farebrother has just sent up a message to say that he wants to speak to me. He is below. I thought you might like to know he was there, if you had anything to say to him.”
Fred had simply snatched up this pretext for speaking, because he could not say, “You are losing confoundedly, and are making everybody stare at you; you had better come away.” But inspiration could hardly have served him better. Lydgate had not before seen that Fred was present, and his sudden appearance with an announcement of Mr Farebrother had the effect of a sharp concussion.
“No, no,” said Lydgate; “I have nothing particular to say to him. But—the game is up—I must be going—I came in just to see Bambridge.”
“Bambridge is over there, but he is making a row—I don’t think he’s ready for business. Come down with me to Farebrother. I expect he is going to blow me up, and you will shield me,” said Fred, with some adroitness.
Lydgate felt shame, but could not bear to act as if he felt it, by refusing to see Mr Farebrother; and he went down. They merely shook hands, however, and spoke of the frost; and when all three had turned
