P. G. Wodehouse

“ He walked, drawing thoughtfully at his cigarette. The more he reviewed the late episode, the less he liked it. He had not seen Jimmy put Molly in the canoe, and her departure seemed to him a deliberate desertion. She had promised to play tennis with him, and at the last moment she had gone off with this fellow Pitt. Who was Pitt? He was always in the way—shoving himself in.
At this moment, a large, warm raindrop fell on his hand. From the bushes all round came an ever-increasing patter. The sky was leaden. ”

“ Spennie's conscience made one last effort. “You'd much better stop, you know, Wesson, really,” he said. “You can lose a frightful lot at this game.”
“My dear Spennie,” said Wesson stiffly, “I can look after myself, thanks. Of course, if you think you are risking too much, by all means——”
“Oh, if you don't mind,” said Spennie, outraged, “I'm only too frightfully pleased. Only, remember I warned you.”
“I'll bear it in mind. By the way, before we start, care to make it a sovereign a hundred?”
Spennie could not afford to play picquet for a sovereign a hundred, or anything like it ”

“ There is no doubt that Spennie ought at this suggestion to have corrected the novice's notion that ten shillings a hundred was fairly moderate. He knew that it was possible for a poor player to lose four hundred points in a twenty-minute game, and usual for him to lose two hundred. But he let the thing go.
“Very well,” he said.
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Wesson was looking somewhat ruefully at the score sheet. “I owe you eighteen shillings,” he said. “Shall I pay you, now, or shall we settle up in a lump after we've finished?”
“What about stopping now?” said Spennie. “It's quite fine out.” ”