The table in front of her was cleared now. People were beginning to consider their next coup. The voice of the croupier, with his parrot-like cry, travelled down the board.
"Faites vos jeux, mesdames et messieurs."
The woman made no effort to stake. After a moment's hesitation she yielded up her place, and moving backwards, seated herself upon an empty divan. Rapidly the thoughts began to form themselves in her mind. Her delicate eyebrows drew closer together in a distinct frown. After that first shock, that queer turmoil of feeling, beyond analysis, yet having within it some entirely unexpected constituent, she found herself disposed to be angry. The sensation had not subsided when a moment or two later she was conscious that the man whose coming had proved so disturbing was standing before her.
"Good afternoon," he said, a little stiffly.
She raised her eyes. The frown was still upon her forehead, although to a certain extent it was contradicted by a slight tremulousness of the lips.
"Good afternoon, Henry!"
For some reason or other, further speech seemed to him a difficult matter. He moved towards the vacant place.
"If you have no objection," he observed, as he seated himself.
She unfurled her fan—an ancient but wonderful weapon of defence. It gave her a brief respite. Then she looked at him calmly.
"Of all places in the world," she murmured, "to meet you here!"