His wife raised significant eyebrows. “If that is true, why should he stay in this quiet place?”
Colonel Duval experienced a momentary embarrassment. “Oh, the place is right enough. He stays, no doubt, because he likes it. You might as well ask why old Mr. Whitmel stays here.”
“The idea of mentioning a clergyman in this connection!”
“Mr. Whitmel is professionally busy,” cried Alicia. “He told me that he is studying 'the disintegration of a soul.' I hope it is not my soul.”
The phrase probably interested Alicia in her idleness, for she was certainly actuated by no view of a moral uplift in the character of Girard, the handsome gambler. She did not recognize a subtle cruelty in her system of universal fascination, but her vanity demanded constant tribute, and she was peculiarly absorbed in the effort to bring to her feet this man of iron, her knight in armor, as she was wont to call him, to control him with her influence, to bend this unmalleable material like the proverbial wax in her hands. She had great faith in the coercive power of her hazel eyes, and she brought their batteries to bear on Girard on the first occasion when she had him at her mercy.
“I have heard something about you which is very painful,” she said one day as they sat together beside the chalybeate spring. The crag, all discolored in rust-red streaks by the dripping of the mineral water through its interstices, towered above their heads; the ferns, exquisite and of subtle fragrance, tufted the niches; the trees were close about them, and below, on the precipitous slope; sometimes the lush green boughs parted, revealing a distant landscape of azure ranges, far stretching against a sky as blue, and in the valley of the foreground long bars of golden hue, where fields, denuded of the harvested wheat, took the sun. Girard lounged, languid, taciturn, and quiescent as ever, on the opposite side of the circular rock basin wherein the clear water fell.
“I will tell you what it is,” Alicia went on, after a pause, for, though he looked attentive, he gave not even a glance of question. “I hear that you gamble.”
His gaze concentrated as he knitted his brows, but he said nothing.
She pulled her broad straw hat forward on her auburn hair and readjusted the flounces of her white morning dress, saying while thus engaged, “Yes, indeed; that you gamble—like—like fury!”
“Why, don't you know that's against the law?” he demanded unexpectedly.