midnight,
Sunday
For a time there was , in the centre of the haze , a nimbus of light which revealed his cards to him and the towers of chips which he constantly called for and which as constantly disappeared -- like the towers of a castle in Spain . Then the haze thickened , and the one thing clear to him was a phrase from an old-time novel he had read long ago : `` Debt of honor . '' The three words appeared to be written in flames against a background of dense fog . A debt of honor was as promissory note which had to be paid on Monday , and the appeal to the obdurate grandfather -- a peer of England , the Earl of Mount-Rhyswicke , in fact -- was made at midnight , Sunday . The fog grew still denser , lifted for a moment while he wrote his name many times on slips of blue paper ; closed down once more , and again lifted -- out-of-doors this time -- to show him a lunatic ballet of moons dancing streakily upon the horizon . He heard himself say quite clearly , `` All right , old man , thank you ; but do n't bother about me , '' to a pallid but humorous Cooley in evening clothes ; the fog thickened ; oblivion closed upon him for a seeming second ... . VII .