Berkley, hollow-eyed, ghastly white, but smiling, glanced at the clock.
"Only one more hand after this," he said. "I open it for the limit."
"All in," said Cortlandt briefly. "What are you going to do now?"
"Scindere glaciem," observed Berkley, "you may give me three cards, Cortlandt." He took them, scanned his hand, tossed the discards into the centre of the table, and bet ten dollars. Through the tobacco smoke drifting in level bands, the crystal chandeliers in Cortlandt's house glimmered murkily; the cigar haze even stretched away into the farther room, where, under brilliantly lighted side brackets, a young girl sat playing at the piano, a glass of champagne, gone flat, at her dimpled elbow. Another girl, in a shrimp-pink evening gown, one silken knee drooping over the other, lay half buried among the cushions, singing the air which the player at the piano picked out by ear. A third girl, velvet-eyed and dark of hair, listened pensively, turning the gems on her fingers.
The pretty musician at the piano was playing an old song, once much admired by the sentimental; the singer, reclining amid her cushions, sang the words, absently:
"Why did I give my heart away—
Give it so lightly, give it to pay
For a pleasant dream on a summer's day?
"Why did I give? I do not know.
Surely the passing years will show.
"Why did I give my love away—
Give it in April, give it in May,
For a young man's smile on a summer's day?
"Why did I love? I do not know.
Perhaps the passing years will show.
"Why did I give my soul away—
Give it so gaily, give it to pay
For a sigh and a kiss on a summer's day?