That venerable gentleman has fulfilled his task in the world,
his desires have been gratified so far as fortune would allow, and one
would think that most pursuits of the competitive sort must have lost
interest for him. Yet he--even he--cannot get rid of the tendency to
gamble; and he studies the financial news with the eagerness of a boy
who follows the fortunes of Quentin Durward or D'Artagnan or Rebecca.
If English railway shares fall, he is exultant or depressed, according
to the operations of his broker; he may be roused into almost
hysterical delight by a rise in "Nitrates" or "Chilians," or any of
the thousands of securities in which stockbrokers deal. What is it to
the old man if Death smiles gently on him, and will soon touch his
heart with ice? There is no past for him; he has forgotten the
raptures of youth, the strength of manhood, the depression of failure,
the gladness of success, and he drugs his soul into forgetfulness by
dwelling on a gambler's chances. So long as the one doubtful boon of
forgetfulness is secured, it seems to matter very little what may be
the stake at disposal. The English racing-man picks out a promising
colt or filly; he finds that he has a swift and good animal, and he
resolves to bring off some vast gambling _coup_.
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