"Was—it—dreadful?"
A pause, then: "Nothing is going to be dreadful to me any more.
It's all in the game, as Mr. Burlingham used to say."
"Burlingham—who's he?" It was Etta's first faint clew toward that mysterious past of Susan's into which she longed to peer.
"Oh—a man I knew. He's dead."
A long pause, Etta watching Susan's unreadable face. At last she said:
"You don't seem a bit excited."
Susan came back to the present. "Don't I? Your soup's getting cold."
Etta ate several spoonfuls, then said with an embarrassed attempt at a laugh, "I—I went, too."
Susan slowly turned upon Etta her gaze—the gaze of eyes softening, becoming violet. Etta's eyes dropped and the color flooded into her fair skin. "He was an old man—forty or maybe fifty," she explained nervously. "He gave me two dollars. I nearly didn't get him. I lost my nerve and told him I was good and was only starting because I needed money."
"Never whine," said Susan. "It's no use. Take what comes, and wait for a winning hand."