“Messieurs, faites vos––”
And the clinking went on, growing louder and louder, the clinking of gold, which has a particularly 313 musical sound, penetrating, crystalline as the golden bells of Exodus, tinkling in the twilight of the temple on the priest’s raiment. The clinking, clinking, that lingers in the brain long after, drawing the players to it night after night; an intoxicating murmur, singing the desires that dominate the world; the jingling that makes all men kin!
“Oh, dear!” said a light feminine voice, as the rapacious rake unceremoniously drew in a poor, diminutive pile of gold. “Why did I play? Isn’t it provoking?”
“You have my sympathy, Mistress Susan,” breathed a voice near her.
Looking around, she had the grace to blush becomingly, and approached Mauville with an expressive gesture, leaving Adonis and Kate at the table.
“Don’t be shocked, Mr. Mauville,” she began, hurriedly. “We were told it was among the sights, and, having natural curiosity––”
“I understand. Armed with righteousness, why should not one go anywhere?”
“Why, indeed?” she murmured.
“But I’m afraid I’m taking you from your play?”
“I’m not going to play any more to-night.”