For, he thought, if prayer is any use, it takes only a few minutes to be on the safe side.
So he went down-stairs leisurely, prepared to acquiesce in any suggestion from anybody, but rather hoping to saunter across Sylvia Landis' path before being committed.
She was standing beside the fire with Quarrier, one foot on the fender, apparently too preoccupied to notice him; so he strolled into the gun-room, which was blue with tobacco smoke and aromatic with the volatile odours from decanters.
There were a few women there, and the majority of the men.

Lord Alderdene, Major Belwether, and Mortimer were at a table by themselves; stacks of ivory chips and five cards spread in the centre of the green explained the nature of their game; and Mortimer, raising his heavy inflamed eyes and seeing Siward unoccupied, said wheezily: "Cut out that 'widow,' and give Siward his stack! Anything above two pairs for a jack triples the ante.

Come on, Siward, there's a decent chap!" So he seated himself for a sacrifice to the blind goddess balanced upon her winged wheel; and the cards ran high--so high that stacks dwindled or toppled within the half-hour, and Mortimer grew redder and redder, and Major Belwether blander and blander, and Alderdene's face wore a continual nervous snicker, showing every white hound's tooth, and the ice in the tall glasses clinked ceaselessly.
It was late when Quarrier "sat in," with an expressionless acknowledgment of Siward's presence, and an emotionless raid upon his neighbour's resources with the first hand dealt, in which he participated without drawing a card.
And always Siward, eyes on his cards, seemed to see Quarrier before him, his overmanicured fingers caressing his silky beard, the symmetrical pompadour dark and thick as the winter fur on a rat, tufting his smooth blank forehead.
It was very late when Siward first began to be aware of his increasing deafness, the difficulty, too, that he had in making people hear, the annoying contempt in Quarrier's woman-like eyes.

He felt that he was making a fool of himself, very noiselessly somehow--but with more racket than he expected when he miscalculated the distance between his hand and a decanter.
It was time for him to go--unless he chose to ask Quarrier for an explanation of that sneer which he found distasteful.

But there was too much noise, too much laughter.
Besides he had a matter to attend to--the careful perusal of his mother's letter to Mrs.Ferrall.
Very white, he rose.