“Does black always win?” she asked.
“Not always,” said Timothy gently. “Maybe he’s only saying that to lure me back to the table. Mary, what do you say?”
“I say yes,” she said, and to the scandal of the one attendant who was watching them he bent forward and kissed her.
A terrible act this, for the gold-laced and liveried footman, who came with slow, majestic steps to where they sat.
“Monsieur,” he said, “this is not done.”
Timothy looked up at him.
“Chassez-vous,” he said firmly.
It was startling French, but it was the nearest he could get at the moment to “chase yourself.”
Again the bell tinkled, and the young Englishman rose, thrust a small packet of money into his pocket and came toward them, bearing what looked to be a large book without covers. His face was a little haggard and the perspiration stood upon his forehead.
“This is getting on my nerves, old man. You had better play yourself,” he said, and he handed the book to Timothy, and Timothy looked vaguely from his hands to the hot Englishman.