sang Canaris, looking up at her with an assumption of mirth, sadder than the melancholy which it could not wholly hide.
“You make light of it, Felix; but I am sure you will fall ill, if you do not get more sleep and quieter dreams,” she said, still smoothing the glossy dark rings of which she was so proud.
“Cara mia, what do you know about my dreams?” he asked, with a hint of surprise in the manner, which was still careless.
“You toss about, and talk so wildly sometimes, that it troubles me to hear you.”
“I will stop it at once. What do I talk about? Something amusing, I hope,” he asked, quickly.
“That I cannot tell, for you speak in French or Italian; but you sigh terribly, and often seem angry or excited about something.”
“That is odd. I do not remember my dreams, but it is little wonder my poor wits are distraught, after all they have been through lately. Did I talk last night, and spoil your sleep, love?” asked Canaris, idly piling up a little heap of coins, though listening intently for her reply.
“Yes: you seemed very busy, and said more than once, ‘Le jeu est fait, rien ne va plus.’ ‘Rouge gagne et couleur,’—or, ‘Rouge perd et couleur gagne.’ I know what those words mean, because I have read them in a novel; and they trouble me from your lips, Felix.”
“I must have been dreaming of a week I once spent in Homberg, with my father. We don’t do that sort of thing here.”
“Not under the same name, perhaps. Dear, do you ever play?” asked Gladys, leaning her cheek against the head which had sunk a little, as he leaned forward to smooth out the crumpled notes before him.