He laughed softly.
"That doesn't sound like you," he observed. "Besides, what does it matter? Write me out some more cheques when we get back. Date them this year or next, or the year after—it really doesn't matter a bit. My fortune is at your disposal. If it amuses you to lose a thousand pounds in the afternoon, and twice as much at night, pray do."
She laughed at him. There was a certain glamour about his words which appealed to her fancy.
"Why, you talk like a prince," she murmured, "and yet you know how impossible it is."
"Is it?" he asked quietly.
She rose abruptly from her place. There was something wrong—she felt it in the atmosphere—something that was almost choking her.
"Let us go back," she insisted.
He ordered the car without another word and they started off homewards. It was not until they were nearing Monte Carlo that he spoke of anything save the slightest topics.
"You must have a little more money," he told her, in a matter-of-fact tone. "That is a necessity. There is no need to worry your husband. I shall go and bring you a thousand pounds. You can give me the cheques later."
She sat looking steadfastly ahead of her. She seemed to see her numbers spread out before her, to hear the click of the ball, the croupier's voice, the thrill of victory.