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Toys of Peace-Part18_H.H.Munro(Saki)(1870-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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table."



"Oh, well," said her hostess, "it's a way of passing the time, you

know."



"A very poor way, to my mind," said Mrs. Thundleford; "now I was

going to have shown all of you the photographs I took in Venice last



summer."

"You showed them to us last night," said Mrs. Cuvering hastily.



"Those were the ones I took in Florence. These are quite a

different lot."



"Oh, well, some time to-morrow we can look at them. You can leave

them down in the drawing-room, and then every one can have a look."



"I should prefer to show them when you are all gathered together, as

I have quite a lot of explanatory remarks to make, about Venetian



art and architecture, on the same lines as my remarks last night on

the Florentine galleries. Also, there are some verses of mine that



I should like to read you, on the rebuilding of the Campanile. But,

of course, if you all prefer to watch Major Latton and Mr. Strinnit



knocking balls about on a table--"

"They are both supposed to be first-rate players," said the hostess.



"I have yet to learn that my verses and my art causerie are of

second-rate quality," said Mrs. Thundleford with acerbity.



"However, as you all seem bent on watching a silly game, there's no

more to be said. I shall go upstairs and finish some writing.



Later on, perhaps, I will come down and join you."

To one, at least, of the onlookers the game was anything but silly.



It was absorbing, exciting, exasperating, nerve-stretching, and

finally it grew to be tragic. The Major with the St. Moritz



reputation was playing a long way below his form, young Strinnit was

playing slightly above his, and had all the luck of the game as



well. From the very start the balls seemed possessed by a demon of

contrariness; they trundled about complacently for one player, they



would go nowhere for the other.

"A hundred and seventy, seventy-four," sang out the youth who was



marking. In a game of two hundred and fifty up it was an enormous

lead to hold. Clovis watched the flush of excitement die away from



Dillot's face, and a hard white look take its place.

"How much have you go on?" whispered Clovis. The other whispered



the sum through dry, shaking lips. It was more than he or any one

connected with him could pay; he had done what he had said he would



do. He had been rash.

"Two hundred and six, ninety-eight."



Rex heard a clock strike ten somewhere in the hall, then another

somewhere else, and another, and another; the house seemed full of



striking clocks. Then in the distance the stable clock chimed in.

In another hour they would all be striking eleven, and he would be



listening to them as a disgraced outcast, unable to pay, even in

part, the wager he had challenged.



"Two hundred and eighteen, a hundred and three." The game was as

good as over. Rex was as good as done for. He longed desperately



for the ceiling to fall in, for the house to catch fire, for

anything to happen that would put an end to that horrible rolling to



and fro of red and white ivory that was jostling him nearer and

nearer to his doom.



"Two hundred and twenty-eight, a hundred and seven."

Rex opened his cigarette-case; it was empty. That at least gave him



a pretext to slip away from the room for the purpose of refilling

it; he would spare himself the drawn-out torture of watching that



hopeless game played out to the bitter end. He backed away from the

circle of absorbed watchers and made his way up a short stairway to



a long, silent corridor of bedrooms, each with a guests' name

written in a little square on the door. In the hush that reigned in



this part of the house he could still hear the hateful click-click

of the balls; if he waited for a few minutes longer he would hear



the little outbreak of clapping and buzz of congratulation that

would hail Strinnit's victory. On the alert tension of his nerves



there broke another sound, the aggressive, wrath-inducing breathing

of one who sleeps in heavy after-dinner slumber. The sound came



from a room just at his elbow; the card on the door bore the

announcement "Mrs. Thundleford." The door was just slightly ajar;



Rex pushed it open an inch or two more and looked in. The august




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