“Living with a croupier?” Sylvia gasped.
“Hush! He belongs to quite a good family. He ruined himself. His name is Manuel Camacho. Don’t talk to me any more, Sylvia. Go away. He’s madly jealous. He wants to marry me.”
“Like Hector, I suppose,” Sylvia scoffed.
“Not a bit like Hector. He brings a priest every morning and says he’ll kill me and himself and the priest, too, if I don’t marry him. But I want to make more money, and then I will marry him. I must. I’m afraid of what he’ll do if I refuse. Go away from me, Sylvia, go away. There’ll be a fearful scene to-night if you will go on talking to me. Last night a man threw a flower into our carriage when we were driving home, and Manuel jumped out and beat him insensible with his cane. Go away.”
Sylvia demanded where she was living, but Lily would not tell her, because she was afraid of what her lover might do.
“He doesn’t even let me look out of the window. If I look out of the window he tears his clothes with rage and digs his finger-nails into the palms of his hands. He’s very violent. Sometimes he shoots at the chandelier.”
Sylvia began to laugh. There was something ridiculous in the notion of Lily’s leading this kind of lion-tamer’s existence. Suddenly the croupier with an angry movement swept a pile of money from the table.
“Go away, Sylvia, go away. I know he’ll break out in a moment. That was meant for a warning.”
Sylvia understood that it was hopeless to persist for the moment, and she made her way back to the cabaret. The girls were eager to know what she thought of Lily’s protector.
“Elle a de la veine, tu sais, la petite Lili. Elle l’a pris comme ça, et il l’aime à la folie. Et elle gagne! mon Dieu, comme elle gagne! Tout va pour elle. Tu sais, elle a des brillants merveilleux. Ça fait riche, tu sais. Y’a pas de chic, mais il est jaloux! Il se porte comme un fou. Ça me raserait, tu sais, être collée avec un homme pareil. Pourtant, elle est busineuse, la petite Lili! Elle ne lui donne pas un rond. Y’a pas de dos vert. Ah, non, elle est la vraie anglaise sans blague. Et le mec, dis, n’est-ce pas qu’il est maigre comme tout? On dirait un squelette.”