“Mary,” he said, “can you tell me why we changed our plans on the boat and decided to go straight on to Monte Carlo instead of staying in Paris?”
“Yes,” she said readily. “Don’t you remember my telling you about those beautiful books of views that I saw on the ship?”
“Where did you see them?” asked Timothy.
“I found them in my cabin one day. I think the steward must have left them,” she said. “They were most wonderful productions, full of coloured prints and photographs—didn’t I tell you about them?”
“I remember,” said Timothy slowly. “Found them in your cabin, eh? Well, nobody left any beautiful or attractive pictures of Monte Carlo in my berth, but I think that won’t stop me going on to Monte Carlo.”
It was an opportunity she had been seeking for a week and she seized it.
“I want to ask you something, Timothy,” she said. “Mrs. Renfrew told me the other day that they call you ‘Take A Chance’ Anderson. Why is that, Timothy?”
“Because I take a chance, I suppose,” he smiled. “I’ve been taking chances all my life.”
“You’re not a gambler, Timothy, are you?” she asked gravely. “I know you bet and play cards, but men do that for amusement, and somehow it is all right. But when men start out to make a living, and actually make a living, by games of chance, they somehow belong to another life and another people.”
He was silent.