bring it to a close. The only one who still kept up valiantly was the old schoolmaster. But he might have been born at an Ombre table.
From the moment that he carefully spread out his coat tails on taking his seat, till he was plainly informed that the game was over, he sat holding his venerable white head as erect as possible, hiding the fever he was always thrown into at the sight of cards and money, under an immoveably grave mask; while only an irrepressible trembling of the lips and the continual creaking of his stiff old boots betrayed his excitement. Now and then, at critical moments, he wiped the pearling sweat from his forehead with a red silk handkerchief; and if, after careful consideration, he ventured to "ask for cards," he would shut his eyes as if breathing a mental prayer. Jensen, the host, sat on his right, struggling in vain with sleep. He was a big stout peasant with a fiery red face and a drooping purple nose. He was the rich man of the neighbourhood, and his whole bearing and attire showed that he considered himself something more than an ordinary peasant. His friends used to call him "Squire Jensen," or Mr Jensen without the christian name. In return he allowed them to fleece him as much as they liked, nay, he even burst into roars of laughter every time he had to produce a fresh "krone" from his trousers pockets. He was not specially interested in the game, although he was proud of having learnt this aristocratic "Lummer" which
