It was only eleven o'clock, and Delamere, not being at all sleepy, and feeling somewhat out of sorts as the combined results of his afternoon's debauch¹ and the snubbing he had received at Clara's hands, directed the major's coachman, who had taken charge of the trap upon its arrival, to drive him to the St. James Hotel before returning the horses to the stable. First, however, the coachman left Ellis at his boarding-house, which was near by. The two young men parted with as scant² courtesy as was possible without an open rupture³.  
Delamere hoped to find at the hotel some form of distraction⁵ to fill in an hour or two before going home. Ill fortune favored him by placing in his way the burly form of Captain George McBane, who was sitting in an armchair alone, smoking a midnight cigar, under the hotel balcony. Upon Delamere's making known his desire for amusement, the captain proposed a small game of poker⁷ in his own room.
 
McBane had been waiting for some such convenient opportunity. We have already seen that the captain was desirous of social recognition, which he had not yet obtained beyond the superficial acquaintance acquired by association with men about town. He had determined⁹ to assault society in its citadel¹⁰ by seeking membership in the Clarendon Club, of which most gentlemen of the best families of the city were members.
 
The Clarendon Club was a historic institution, and its membership a social cult¹¹, the temple of which was located just off the main street of the city, in a dignified¹² old colonial mansion¹³ which had housed it for the nearly one hundred years during which it had maintained its existence unbroken. There had grown up around it many traditions and special usages. Membership in the Clarendon was the sine qua non of high social standing¹⁴, and was conditional¹⁵ upon two of three things,—birth, wealth, and breeding. Breeding was the prime essential, but, with rare exceptions, must be backed by either birth or money.
 
Having decided¹⁶, therefore, to seek admission into this social arcanum, the captain, who had either not quite appreciated the standard of the Clarendon's membership, or had failed to see that he fell beneath it, looked about for an intermediary through whom to approach the object of his desire. He had already thought of Tom Delamere in this connection, having with him such an acquaintance as one forms around a hotel, and having long ago discovered that Delamere was a young man of superficially amiable¹⁷ disposition¹⁸, vicious instincts, lax principles, and a weak will, and, which was quite as much to the purpose, a member of the Clarendon Club. Possessing mental characteristics almost entirely¹⁹ opposite, Delamere and the captain had certain tastes in common, and had smoked, drunk, and played cards together more than once.
 
Still more to his purpose, McBane had detected Delamere trying to cheat him at cards. He had said nothing about this discovery, but had merely noted²⁰ it as something which at some future time might prove useful. The captain had not suffered by Delamere's deviation²¹ from the straight line of honor, for while Tom was as clever with the cards as might be expected of a young man who had devoted²² most of his leisure for several years to handling them, McBane was past master in their manipulation. During a stormy career he had touched more or less pitch, and had escaped few sorts of defilement²³.
 
The appearance of Delamere at a late hour, unaccompanied, and wearing upon his countenance²⁴ an expression in which the captain read aright the craving²⁵ for mental and physical excitement, gave him the opportunity for which he had been looking. McBane was not the man to lose an opportunity, nor did Delamere require a second invitation. Neither was it necessary, during the progress of the game, for the captain to press upon his guest the contents of the decanter which stood upon the table within convenient reach.
 
The captain permitted Delamere to win from him several small amounts, after which he gradually increased the stakes and turned the tables.
 
Delamere, with every instinct of a gamester, was no more a match for McBane in self-control than in skill. When the young man had lost all his money, the captain expressed his entire willingness to accept notes of hand, for which he happened to have convenient blanks in his apartment.
 
When Delamere, flushed with excitement and wine, rose from the gaming table at two o'clock, he was vaguely²⁶ conscious that he owed McBane a considerable sum, but could not have stated how much. His opponent, who was entirely cool and collected, ran his eye carelessly over the bits of paper to which Delamere had attached his signature. "Just one thousand dollars even," he remarked.
 
The announcement of this total had as sobering an effect upon Delamere as though he had been suddenly deluged²⁷ with a shower of cold water. For a moment he caught his breath. He had not a dollar in the world with which to pay this sum. His only source of income was an allowance from his grandfather, the monthly installment²⁸ of which, drawn²⁹ that very day, he had just lost to McBane, before starting in upon the notes of hand.
 
"I'll give you your revenge another time," said McBane, as they rose. "Luck is against you to-night, and I'm unwilling³⁰ to take advantage of a clever young fellow like you. Meantime," he added, tossing the notes of hand carelessly on a bureau, "don't worry about these bits of paper. Such small matters shouldn't cut any figure between friends; but if you are around the hotel to-morrow, I should like to speak to you upon another subject."
 
"Very well, captain," returned Tom somewhat ungraciously.
 
Delamere had been completely beaten with his own weapons. He had tried desperately³¹ to cheat McBane. He knew perfectly³² well that McBane had discovered his efforts and had cheated him in turn, for the captain's play had clearly been gauged³³ to meet his own. The biter had been bit, and could not complain of the outcome.
 
The following afternoon McBane met Delamere at the hotel, and bluntly requested the latter to propose him for membership in the Clarendon Club.
 
Delamere was annoyed at this request. His aristocratic gorge³⁵ rose at the presumption³⁶ of this son of an overseer and ex-driver of convicts. McBane was good enough to win money from, or even to lose money to, but not good enough to be recognized as a social equal. He would instinctively³⁷ have blackballed McBane had he been proposed by some one else; with what grace could he put himself forward as the sponsor for this impossible social aspirant³⁸? Moreover, it was clearly a vulgar, cold-blooded attempt on McBane's part to use his power over him for a personal advantage.
 
"Well, now, Captain McBane," returned Delamere diplomatically, "I've never put any one up yet, and it's not regarded as good form for so young a member as myself to propose candidates. I'd much rather you'd ask some older man."
 
"Oh, well," replied McBane, "just as you say, only I thought you had cut your eye teeth."
 
Delamere was not pleased with McBane's tone. His remark was not acquiescent³⁹, though couched in terms of assent⁴⁰. There was a sneering⁴¹ savagery⁴² about it, too, that left Delamere uneasy. He was, in a measure, in McBane's power. He could not pay the thousand dollars, unless it fell from heaven, or he could win it from some one else. He would not dare go to his grandfather for help. Mr. Delamere did not even know that his grandson gambled. He might not have objected, perhaps, to a gentleman's game, with moderate stakes, but he would certainly, Tom knew very well, have looked upon a thousand dollars as a preposterous⁴³ sum to be lost at cards by a man who had nothing with which to pay it. It was part of Mr. Delamere's creed⁴⁴ that a gentleman should not make debts that he was not reasonably able to pay.
 
There was still another difficulty. If he had lost the money to a gentleman, and it had been his first serious departure from Mr. Delamere's perfectly well understood standard of honor, Tom might have risked a confession⁴⁵ and thrown himself on his grandfather's mercy; but he owed other sums here and there, which, to his just now much disturbed imagination, loomed⁴⁶ up in alarming number and amount. He had recently observed signs of coldness, too, on the part of certain members of the club. Moreover, like most men with one commanding vice⁴⁷, he was addicted⁴⁸ to several subsidiary forms of iniquity⁴⁹, which in case of a scandal were more than likely to come to light. He was clearly and most disagreeably caught in the net of his own hypocrisy⁵⁰. His grandfather believed him a model of integrity, a pattern of honor; he could not afford to have his grandfather undeceived.
 
He thought of old Mrs. Ochiltree. If she were a liberal soul, she could give him a thousand dollars now, when he needed it, instead of making him wait until she died, which might not be for ten years or more, for a legacy⁵¹ which was steadily^{52<............}