And oh! The price of peas. The expense of maintaining a gambling house was enormous, even though that house was not in Piccadilly but rather the raffish Haymarket, alongside hotels and cafes and taverns, the King’s Theater for Italian Opera and the Theater Royal, vying for attention with popular entertainments from human curiosities to animal prodigies, her own favorite to date being a half-dozen turkeys executing a country dance. She was the proprietress of a Pandemonium. Mina marveled at herself. Since said Pandemonium was in the Haymarket, did that make her Haymarket ware? The hour was late, the gaming rooms in full swing. Those rooms were as fine as their more fashionable rivals, furnished with thick carpets and marble fireplaces, rich woods and comfortable sofas and chairs. Moxley, admitted Mina, had known what he was about. Moxley had known what he was about in regard to many matters; had possessed a certain exuberance, a joie de vivre. But Moxley was water well run under the bridge and there was no use sniffling over milk that had been spilt.
