“You’d take a long chance on her winning?” laughed the philosopher.
“I’ll play you odds on it!” cried the juvenile. “Four to one, damme! I’ll risk that on her eyes.”
“Four to one on a lady’s eyes, child! Say forty to one, and take the hazard of the die.”
Standing near the rhymster, story-writer and journalist, was a tall young man, dressed in creole fashion. He followed the glances of Straws’ questioners and a pallor overspread his dark complexion as he looked at the object of their attention.
“The stroller!” he exclaimed half audibly. “Her counterpart doesn’t exist.”
He stepped back where he could see her more plainly. In that sea of faces, her features alone shone before him, clearly, insistently.
“Do you know her, Mr. Mauville?” asked the rhymster, observing that steadfast glance.
“Know her?” repeated the land baron, starting. “Oh, I’ve seen her act.”
“Tip me off her points and I’ll tip my readers.”