But here his sense of justice asserted itself. The man was not leaving her—she was sending him away. He had come seeking her and she had refused to go. She had made her choice; but how could she help being sad at the thought that one epoch of her life was ended? She had lived with this man in closest intimacy; he had no doubt been kind and generous. He had loved her. At the end he had come offering everything he had—and she had sent him away. Where had he gone?
A sudden thought startled Selden out of his moodiness. What had the prince meant when he promised to give his money to the bank? Why had he smiled so ironically? Which bank?
In a moment Selden was hurrying toward the Sporting Club, and the instant he entered the rooms he knew that his suspicion was correct. That dense crowd around a single table could mean only one thing—somebody was playing the limit.
“He is playing nineteen—always nineteen,” said a man beside him to his neighbour.
Nineteen! Then of course it was the prince.
It was some time before Selden could get near enough to see what was going on, but meanwhile the marble had been spun twice and he heard the croupier announce two and eleven. Then he managed to worm himself into a position from which he could see the prince.
Danilo seemed entirely cool, nonchalant—listless, even. He was smoking a cigarette and tossing his notes into place upon the board as though they were so many bits of worthless paper. He appeared equally indifferent as to whether he won or lost, and totally unconscious of the gaping crowd that watched him. Selden recognized in his bearing the cold fury of the confirmed gambler, which stops at nothing. There had been in his head the idea that he might intervene, but he saw that it was useless. To speak to the prince now would be to insult him.
“The thirty-five!” announced the croupier. “Black, odd and low.”
Well, that was not so bad—six thousand on low and six on odd. But the next number was six and the board was swept clear again.
The prince proceeded calmly to renew his bets.