She wished to play again, but felt at sea,
without a rudder. Her unconscious vanity rebelled against risking loss
at this table of which she had been the queen, the idol.
She rose, pale and suddenly tired. "I won't play any more," she said, in
a little voice, like a child's.
"Oh, why?" asked the young man with the straw-coloured hair.
"I don't know why," she answered. "Only I don't want to."
"Your money!" exclaimed Madame d'Ambre. "We must have all the gold put
into _mille_ notes, or you cannot carry it."
For an instant Mary had forgotten the money and the necessity of taking
it away, but Madame d'Ambre, who had now firmly identified her own
interests with those of her protegee, attended to the practical duties
of the partnership. She was somewhat disagreeably conscious that the
young man's eyes were fixed upon her as she collected her friend's
enormous winnings. As people made way for the Frenchwoman and her
starlike companion to pass, this man gathered up his small store of gold
and silver, and followed. On the outskirts of the crowd stood the
Dauntreys and their party. Mary and Madame d'Ambre passed close to them,
but the heroine of the moment was too intensely excited to recognize any
one. She walked as if on air, her hands full of notes, some of which she
was stuffing into her gold-beaded bag.
"Why, it's the girl in the train who said she was going to Florence,"
exclaimed Dodo Wardropp. "Can she be the one who's made the sensation?"
"Yes, it's she," said Lady Dauntrey.
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