Supposing he did win a couple of hundred, wouldn't he be in it?
Lots of sports he knew made their living at this game, and a good living, too.
"They always had as much as I had," he thought.
So off he went to a poker room in the neighborhood, feeling much as he had in the old days.

In this period of self-forgetfulness, aroused first by the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner in the hotel, with cocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like the old Hurstwood as he would ever be again.

It was not the old Hurstwood--only a man arguing with a divided conscience and lured by a phantom.
This poker room was much like the other one, only it was a back room in a better drinking resort.

Hurstwood watched a while, and then, seeing an interesting game, joined in.

As before, it went easy for a while, he winning a few times and cheering up, losing a few pots and growing more interested and determined on that account.