There was no single one to whom he could turn with
the burden of his conscience, no one to whom he did not systematically
play himself off as something other than he was. And opposite he
looked into a face full of grave sympathy, not unshadowed with
personal sadness. Yet he hesitated, and Nehal Singh went on
thoughtfully:
"There are some things I do not understand," he said. "You were
playing some game for money. I have heard of that before, but I do not
understand. Are you then, so poor?"
Geoffries laughed miserably.
"I am now," he said.
"Then it _is_ money that is the trouble?"
"It always is. At first one plays for the fun of the thing and
because--oh, well, one has to, don't you know. Afterward, one plays to
get it back."
"But you have not got it back?"
Geoffries shook his head.
"I never do," he said. "I'm a rotter at bridge."
"A hundred rupees!" Nehal went on reflectively. "That was the sum, I
think? It is very little--not enough to cause you any trouble."
"Not by itself," Geoffries agreed, with a fresh collapse into his old
depression. "But it is the last straw. I'm cut pretty short by the
home people, who don't understand, and there are other things--polo
ponies, dinner-races, subscriptions--"
"And the Bazaar."
Geoffries caught his breath and glanced across at the stern, unhappy
face. He read there in an instant a pitying contempt which at first
seemed ridiculous, and then insolent, and then terrible.
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