"Shall we see Gwendolen Harleth?" she whispered to Evelyn.
On this occasion, however, Gwendolen Harleth was conspicuous by her absence. There were a number of women at the roulette-tables who looked like commonplace, hard-working governesses; there were be-rouged and be-jewelled ladies of the demi-monde; there were wicked, wrinkled old harpies who always seemed to win; and there were one or two ordinary blooming young girls; but there was no Gwendolen Harleth. For a moment Lucy was almost disappointed. It all looked so like a game with counters, and no one seemed to care so very much where the wheel stopped: surely the tragedy of this place had been a little overdrawn.
At that instant her eyes fell on an English boy, whose fresh honest face was thrown into deep anxious furrows, and who kept glancing furtively round, as if to make sure that no one noticed his misery. His eye met Lucy's, and with a great effort he tried to smooth his face into a look of easy assurance. He was not playing, but he went on half unconsciously, jotting down the winning numbers on a slip of paper.
"Messieurs, faites vos jeux."
The boy opened a large lean pocket-book, and drew out his last five-franc piece.
"Le jeu est fait."
With sudden resolution he laid it on the table, and pushed it into place.
"Rien ne, va plus."
"Vingt-sept."
And the poor little five-franc piece was swept into the bank.