an equally unsuccessful friend who was trying his luck for a change in Paris, and I was painting hard, having had luck with two things Iâd sold to the Grantham Gallery and was feeling generally inspired. I dragged myself away from the easel reluctantly and put on my best suit and went along to the Loveridges expecting a good meal and probably an evening of bridge with him and Lucille and Peter Stevenson. Bob was mad on bridge, and I like it for its orderliness, its formality. But when I got there I was told there was to be an eight. The Mayhews and the Frenches were coming, and we were to play duplicate, which is always a bit more intense.
The Mayhews turned out to be an upper middle-aged, upper middle-income couple from out of town somewhere; she a Jewess, and he a tight-necked, red-faced man with a Battle of Britain scar on his cheek. The Frenches were late and when they came it was only Captain French, his sister having gone down with a migraine.
I disliked French at sight. Perhaps he couldnât be blamed for his defaulting sister mucking up the evening; but he was in a crack regiment, not long out of Sandhurst, and young and suave and far too sure of his own charm. He hardly bothered to apologize for being late or for not letting Bob Loveridge know in time to get an eighth. The fact that he had come himself was apparently in his view a more than adequate recompense.
And straight away he set his sights on Lucille and took a bearing. He talked so much to her at dinner that she might have been the generalâs daughter. Now Lucille is nobodyâs fool, and no doubt it had happened to her before; but I suppose his charm really did work for some people, and she was modest enough to be flattered. I could see rocks ahead. Peter Stevenson stood the onslaught on his girl pretty well. He was on his best behaviour, of course, but I had known times when he could be quick off the mark and bull-headed. Humphrey French â and in a way Lucille â were trying him high tonight.
After dinner we drifted into the drawing-room, and the two tables were set for bridge; and all I could see â for three of us anyhow â was â dummyâ bridge, which is neither fish, flesh nor fowl, and I was beginning to yawn mentally when Captain French suggested couldnât we play poker instead? What business it was of his to suggest this I never knew, but anyway Bob Loveridge said, why not? if everyone was agreeable, we could make the stakes fairly small.
This we did, pulling the two tables together and settling down, French again beside Lucille; and Peter took the opposite side of the table. By now his face was tightening, like somebodyâs glove thatâs a size small.
A humorist once called poker a game of chance. Maybe he was a good player. I am not. Nor is Peter. Or he wasnât that night. But that night it became a sort of private war between him and French, and that made him reckless. French, of course, was cool as an ice-pack and knew his stuff â from long years of practice, no doubt. Anyway, he won all along the line. As for the others, the Mayhews lost a little, but in the good-humoured way of people having an inexpensive evening out. Bob Loveridge was just in pocket. Lucille was very lucky and won quite a lot. This made things more difficult for Peter. By eleven I was £18 down. Peter about £40.
At this stage, Peter said with deadly politeness that he was cleaned out, and the game, in spite of Humphrey Frenchâs offer to lend him a fiver, broke up. Well, I was livid both with French and with Bob Loveridge, because Bob must have known if heâd the gumption of a louse that neither of us could afford to lose that kind of money. In spite of my little run of prosperity £18 to me was more than £100 to him, and I could see it might mean me being late with the rent for the studio, an idea I wasnât wild about, seeing there was someone in Paris depending on it for his bread
The Mayhews turned out to be an upper middle-aged, upper middle-income couple from out of town somewhere; she a Jewess, and he a tight-necked, red-faced man with a Battle of Britain scar on his cheek. The Frenches were late and when they came it was only Captain French, his sister having gone down with a migraine.
I disliked French at sight. Perhaps he couldnât be blamed for his defaulting sister mucking up the evening; but he was in a crack regiment, not long out of Sandhurst, and young and suave and far too sure of his own charm. He hardly bothered to apologize for being late or for not letting Bob Loveridge know in time to get an eighth. The fact that he had come himself was apparently in his view a more than adequate recompense.
And straight away he set his sights on Lucille and took a bearing. He talked so much to her at dinner that she might have been the generalâs daughter. Now Lucille is nobodyâs fool, and no doubt it had happened to her before; but I suppose his charm really did work for some people, and she was modest enough to be flattered. I could see rocks ahead. Peter Stevenson stood the onslaught on his girl pretty well. He was on his best behaviour, of course, but I had known times when he could be quick off the mark and bull-headed. Humphrey French â and in a way Lucille â were trying him high tonight.
After dinner we drifted into the drawing-room, and the two tables were set for bridge; and all I could see â for three of us anyhow â was â dummyâ bridge, which is neither fish, flesh nor fowl, and I was beginning to yawn mentally when Captain French suggested couldnât we play poker instead? What business it was of his to suggest this I never knew, but anyway Bob Loveridge said, why not? if everyone was agreeable, we could make the stakes fairly small.
This we did, pulling the two tables together and settling down, French again beside Lucille; and Peter took the opposite side of the table. By now his face was tightening, like somebodyâs glove thatâs a size small.
A humorist once called poker a game of chance. Maybe he was a good player. I am not. Nor is Peter. Or he wasnât that night. But that night it became a sort of private war between him and French, and that made him reckless. French, of course, was cool as an ice-pack and knew his stuff â from long years of practice, no doubt. Anyway, he won all along the line. As for the others, the Mayhews lost a little, but in the good-humoured way of people having an inexpensive evening out. Bob Loveridge was just in pocket. Lucille was very lucky and won quite a lot. This made things more difficult for Peter. By eleven I was £18 down. Peter about £40.
At this stage, Peter said with deadly politeness that he was cleaned out, and the game, in spite of Humphrey Frenchâs offer to lend him a fiver, broke up. Well, I was livid both with French and with Bob Loveridge, because Bob must have known if heâd the gumption of a louse that neither of us could afford to lose that kind of money. In spite of my little run of prosperity £18 to me was more than £100 to him, and I could see it might mean me being late with the rent for the studio, an idea I wasnât wild about, seeing there was someone in Paris depending on it for his bread
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