Sybil cried out, frightened and astonished. Eighty pounds! and besides that she had played in a lady's four and lost another ten. Her mother was not rich; she could not pay easily.
"Keep your pennies," he mocked in lordly tones. "Some day you'll pay me. I am glad to help a little pal." Jimmie meant the payment to be a high one, with interest. He was a merciless human hawk, poising long, swift to strike at the last. "We played sixpennies, you see."
"I never dreamt," Sybil faltered; "I thought it was pennies here."
When you owe a man eighty pounds, when he has paid rather than have you cornered, it would be churlish to spring aside, a prude, if he kisses you softly before you part. If he pulls you to the arm of his chair and keeps you there, holding two small chill hands, it is surely all in good friendship.
Sybil went away with some of the careless youth wiped from her fresh face, with trouble and perplexity in her frank eyes; the big dark man fascinated her, knew how to make her feel a little queen, how to bring the hot blood to her cheeks, but to-night she was half afraid. His little pal! She'd cured his headache—been a brick to stay with him. Instead of playing bridge to-night they'd play piquet in a quiet corner, he whispered.
"You didn't come to tea." Oliver Knox came straight to Sybil in the hall, his face ill-humoured. "I was watching for you."
"No, I was tired," she said, blushing a little.
"And Gore Helmsley did not come—our black Adonis, Miss Chauntsey—can't you see through the man?"
A foolish speech uttered by foolishly, honestly loving youth. Sybil tossed her head angrily and walked away offended.
"Coming to play to-night?" Mousie Cavendish asked her.