Now, look into the mind of the
gambler--he wants to make money, contrary to nature, and unjustly. He
wants to be rewarded without merit, to make a fortune in a moment, and
without industry, vigilance, true skill, or self-denial. 'A penny saved
is a penny gained' does not enter his creed. Strip the thing of its
disguise, it is avarice, sordid avarice; and I call it weak avarice,
because the gambler relies on chance alone, yet accepts uneven chances,
and hopes that Fortune will be as much in love with him as he is with
himself. What silly egotism! You admire the Kursaal, and you are right;
then do just ask yourself why is there nothing to pay for so many
expensive enjoyments: and very little to pay for concerts and balls; low
prices at the opera, which never pays its own expenses; even Chevet's
dinners are reasonable, if you avoid his sham Johannisberg. All these
cheap delights, the gold, the colors, the garden, the music, the lights,
are paid for by the losses of feeble-minded Avarice. But, there--I said
all this to Ned Severne, and I might as well have preached sense to the
wind."
"Harrington, I will not play. I am much happier walking with my good
brother--"
"Faute de mieux.
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