"That wretched boy will marry the woman," was the thought that jumped
into Vanno's mind. He recognized the insignificant face, with its
receding chin and forehead, as that of a very young baronet, the last of
a degenerate family, weak of intellect, strong only in his craze for
jewels and horses. He had been in love with two or three English girls,
and one noted American beauty, but all, though comparatively poor, had
refused him, saying that one "must draw the line somewhere, and he was
the limit." Madeleine d'Ambre would not be fastidious. The brief
revelation, like something seen in the flare of a match that quickly
dies out, struck Vanno with pity and disgust. But a youth of this
calibre was sure sooner or later to drift to Monte Carlo; and perhaps
the Frenchwoman's leading strings would be better for him than none.
Again the wheel spun round, and Mary lost several piles of gold and
notes. It seemed to Vanno that she was changed not only in expression,
but even in features. The outline of her face looked sharper, thinner,
less girlish. Her eyes, very wide open, were bright, but not with their
own happy brightness, like a reflection of sunlight. They were more like
thick glass through which a fire can be seen dimly burning: and she
looked astonished, piteous, as a child looks when it has been seized and
whipped for a fault committed in ignorance. She seemed to be saying to
herself dazedly, "What has happened to me? Why should I be punished?"
High on each cheek burned a round spot of bright rose colour.
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