It was a queer place for such a confession, and in her wildest dreams the girl never imagined that the first word of love spoken to her by any man would come in a gambling saloon at Monte Carlo. Above her where she sat was the great canvas of the Florentine Graces; half nude reliefs on the ceiling dangled glittering chains of light and over all sounded the monotonous voice of the croupier:
“Rouge perd—et couleur.”
The young Englishman at the table turned round with an inquiring lift of his eyebrows, and Timothy nodded.
“He wants to know if I’m finished, I suppose,” he said, “and honestly Mary, I am. I’m going back to London when this trip’s over, and I’m going to start at the bottom and work up.”
“Poor Timothy!” she said again.
“I’m not going to lie to you, or pretend any longer. I just love you, Mary, and if you’ll wait for me, I’ll make good. I have been a gambler,” he said, “a poor, low gambler, and all the time I’ve thought I’ve been clever! I’ve been going round puffed up with my own self-importance, and my head’s been so much in the air that I haven’t seen just where my feet were leading me,” he laughed. “This sounds like the sort of thing you get at the Salvation Army penitent form,” he said, “but I’m straight and sincere.”
“I know you are, Timothy, but you needn’t start at the bottom. I have my money——”
“Stop where you are, Mary,” he said quietly. “Not a penny would I take from you, darling.”
“What did they ring that bell for?” she asked.
It was the second time the tinkle of sound had come from the croupier at the trente et quarante table.