Gamblers flocked to try their luck at hazard, faro, rouge et noir, E.O; to discover what changes the new owner had put into effect (none, to date); and to speculate upon how much time would pass before he abandoned the place altogether, the gentleman not known for sustained interest in anyone or anything. That new owner stood, just now, in the supper room, which was fitted out with crystal chandeliers and a thick carpet, small tables set with silver and fine china and pristine linen cloths. The patrons were feasting on boiled fowl with oyster sauce, washed down with liberal amounts of champagne. Lord Quinton was, as usual, dressed in black. He was a devastatingly handsome man in (or so the ladies said) a deliciously diabolic way, with black hair worn unfashionably long and eyes as dark as his transgressions, ascetic features stamped with dissipation and ennui. No less memorable was the gentleman with whom he was engaged in conversation (or rather, to whom he was listening, with a disinterested expression), who was athletic of figure and angelic of feature, with red-gold hair and sapphire eyes.
