"You like not to be beaten by a Frenchman, no?" laughed Bertrand. "_Il faut que les anglais soient toujours, toujours les premiers, hein_?" He stopped suddenly, for Chris had made the faintest movement, as if his words had touched some chord of memory. He flashed her a swift look, and the smile died out of his face. He moved round the table, and again stooped to his stroke. "But what is success after all," he said, "and what is failure?"
"You ought to know," Max observed dryly, as again he made his point.
The Frenchman straightened himself. There was something of kinship between these two, a tacit sympathy that had taken root on the night of Chris's birthday, an understanding that called for no explanation.
"Yes," he said, with a quick nod, "I know them both. They are worth just--that." He snapped his fingers in the air. "They pass like"--he hesitated a moment, then ended with deliberation--"like pictures in the sand."
"The same remark applies to most things," said Rupert.
Bertrand glanced at him. "To all but one, monsieur," he said, in a queer tone that was almost tinged with irony.
Again he bent himself to a stroke with a quick, light grace, as though he regarded success as a foregone conclusion.
"Look at that!" said Noel in dejection, as the ball cannoned triumphantly down the table. "The gods are all on his side."
The stroke was a brilliant one, but Bertrand did not immediately straighten himself as before. He remained leaning across the table, as if he watched the effect of his skill.
There was a brief pause before very carefully he laid his cue upon the cloth and began to raise himself, slowly, with infinite caution, using both hands.
"No," he said, speaking jerkily, in a rapid undertone, as if to himself. "The gods--are no more--on my side."
A sharp gasp escaped him. He stood up, and they saw the sweat running down his forehead. "Will you--excuse me for a moment?" he said. "I have--forgotten _quelque chose_."
He turned towards Chris with punctilious courtesy, clicked his heels together, bowed, and walked stiffly from the room.
An amazed silence followed his exit; then, in a quick whisper, Chris spoke.
"He isn't well. I'm sure he isn't well. Did you see--his face--when he stood up?"