"But it has just come."
"It may come again. Often a number repeats. Shall I or not? An instant, and it will be too late."
With her heart in her throat, Mary handed the Frenchwoman a hundred-franc note crushed in a ball. Madame d'Ambre asked a croupier near where she stood to stake the money. He did so, just in time. The ball slipped into the pocket of number 21. "Too bad! But better luck next time. Will you try a simple chance, red or black, for instance? Or one of the dozens?"
"No, twenty-four again," answered a voice that Mary hardly knew as her own. "I must!" With a trembling hand, she gave her friend nine louis. "That's the maximum for a number, you said," she faltered. "Please put it on."
"But all your money will soon be gone at this rate. A louis would bring you thirty-five——"
"No, no, the maximum!"
Madame d'Ambre, aided by her croupier-neighbour, obeyed.
A strange golden haze floated before Mary's eyes. She could not see through it. She tried to tell herself, as the big wheel spun, that this was not important at all; that it did not really matter what happened: yet something inside her said, "It's the most important thing in the world, to win, to win, to make all these people envy you. It isn't the money, it's the joy, the triumph, the ecstasy."
The ball dropped. Mary could not look, could not have seen if she had looked: but her whole soul listened for the croupier's announcement.
"Vingt-quatre, noir, pair et passe."