“None, Madame! If coroners were the fashion here, thay 'd bring in a verdict of died from backing the wrong color, with a deodand against the rake!'”
“Yes, it is ver' true, he always play bad,” muttered the Pole.
And now the room began to fill with people discussing the late incident in every possible mood and with every imaginable shade of sentiment. A few—a very few—dropped some expressions of pity and compassion. Many preferred to make a display of their own courage by a bantering, scornful tone, and some only saw in the event how unsuited certain natures were to contend with the changeful fortunes of high play. These were, for the most part, Dalton's acquaintances, and who had often told him—at least, so they now took credit for—that “he had no head for play.” Interspersed with these were little discussions as to the immediate cause of death, as full of ignorance and as ingenious as such explanations usually are, all being contemptuously wound up by Haggerstone's remark, “That death was like matrimony,—very difficult when wanted, but impossible to escape when you sought to avoid it!” As this remark had the benefit of causing a blush to poor Martha, he gave his arm to the ladies, with a sense of gratification that came as near happiness as anything he could imagine.
“Is Miss Dalton in the drawing-room?” said Mrs. Rick-etts, as with an air of deep importance she swept through the hall of the villa.
“She's in her room, Madame,” said the maid.
“Ask if she will receive me,—if I may speak to her.”
The maid went out, and returned with the answer that Miss Dalton was sleeping.
“Oh, let her sleep!” cried Martha. “Who knows when she will taste such rest again?”
Mrs. Ricketts bestowed a glance of withering scorn on her sister, and pushed roughly past her, towards Nelly's chamber. A few minutes after a wild, shrill shriek was heard through the house, and then all was still.