"Ah—at last!" she laughed. "I thought I should never get the hundred. Now we have one for banishment, ten for imprisonment, and a hundred for death."
The brown Marguerite Didier produced her own card—a dainty trifle tied with a narrow tricolour ribbon.
"You are wrong," she said—"it is but eight for imprisonment. You give him two more chances of life than there is any need to."
"That's because I love him so well. Is he not Philippe's cousin?" drawled the other, making the correction.
Philippe himself leaned suddenly between them.
"I should be jealous, it appears," he said smoothly. "Who is it that you love so much?"
The bare white shoulders were lifted a little farther out of their very scanty drapery.
"Eh—that charming cousin Veto of yours. Since you love him so well, I am sure I may love him too. May I not?"
Philippe's laugh was a little hoarse, though ready enough.
"But certainly, chère amie," he said. "Have I not just proved my affection to the whole world?"