You can't conceive, Dick, the cataracts of tears
that have poured over this rug you admire so much."
"I don't understand," said Carleton, looking blank. "Unless you want to
switch me off the subject of----"
"The Poor Dear? No, indeed. But you couldn't be expected to understand,
not being a chaplain's wife at Monte Carlo. You see, they hear we're
kind, so they call, and then begin to cry and offer me pawn tickets as
security."
"Who are 'they'?"
"Oh, poor creatures--seldom poor dears--who've _lost_, you know. As I
suppose your one has?"
"On the contrary," said Dick, almost sharply. "She's won tremendous
sums. She simply can't lose--anything except her head."
"Not her heart? But without joking, if she isn't a 'case,' why do you
want me to----"
"Because I think she ought to have some one to look after her, some one
who knows the ropes. Honestly, Rose, I'd be awfully obliged if you'd
call."
"I will of course," Rose answered. "Have I got to be agreeable to any
mothers or aunts she may have lurking in the background?"
"That's the trouble. She hasn't got a soul."
"Oh! And she is quite young?"
"Sometimes she looks a baby. Sometimes I think she's a little older."
"Then she probably is. Where's she staying?"
"At the Hotel de Paris."
"My gracious! _Alone_ at a big Monte Carlo hotel! A young girl! No
wonder you glare out of the window while you ask me to call on her, and
stick your hands deep in your pockets. People won't allow me for an
instant to forget I'm a clergyman's wife.
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