Rouletta's expression altered; she regarded her inquisitor more intently. "You know I'm not," said she. "What are you driving at?"
"Well, why don't you? Are you too good?"
"Yes." The visitor spoke coldly. She turned away, but Laure stepped close and cried, in a low, angry voice:
"Oh no, you're not! You've fooled the men, but you can't fool us girls.
I've got your number. I know your game."
"My game? Then why don't you take a shift in the gambling-room? Why work in here?"
"You understand me," the other persisted. "Too good for the dance-hall, eh? Too good to associate with us girls; too good to live like us! YOU stop at the Courteau House, the RESPECTABLE hotel! Bah! Miller fell for you, but—you'd better let well enough alone."
"That's precisely what I do. If there were a better hotel than the Courteau House I'd stop there. But there isn't. Now, then, suppose you tell me what really ails you."
Laure's dusky eyes were blazing, her voice was hoarse when she answered:
"All right. I'll tell you. I want you to mind your own business. Yes, and I'm going to see that you do. You can't go home alone, can you? Afraid of the dark, I suppose, or afraid some man will speak to you. My goodness! The airs you put on—YOU! Sam Kirby's girl, the daughter of a gambler, a—"
"Leave my father out of this!" There was something of Sam Kirby's force in this sharp command, something of his cold, forbidding anger in his daughter's face. "He's my religion, so you'd better lay off of him. Speak out. Where did I tread on your toes?"