"I knew I had a bad hand," Arthur admitted; he ran his hand through his hair, sheepishly. He should have known better. He did know better; he should have folded. Still, Art remembered - he never really knew when to accept that his hand was bad, even when he knew that his hand was bad. It could be a bit of a personal problem.

Thirteen sickles; he could make up some of thirteen sickles. Especially when Miss Scrimgeour was so over-confident already.

"Alright, Miss Scrimgeour," Arthur said, "You have a deal. And what do I get when I win the hand?" He couldn't lose to her twice in a row; that would just be bad for his dignity.

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