“With negligible stakes all first-class gamblers are honest.”
“If I were you, Sengoun, I wouldn’t drink anything more.”
“Excellent advice, old fellow!” emptying his goblet with satisfaction. And, rising to his firm and graceful height, he strolled away toward the salon where play progressed amid the most decorous and edifying of atmospheres.
Neeland watched him disappear, then he glanced curiously at the girl on the sofa who was still preoccupied with her newspaper.
So he rose, sauntered about the room examining the few pictures and bronzes, modern but excellent. The 361 carpet under foot was thick and soft, but, as he strolled past the girl who seemed to be so intently reading, she looked up over her paper and returned his civil recognition of her presence with a slight smile.
As he appeared inclined to linger, she said with pleasant self-possession:
“These newspaper rumours, monsieur, are becoming too persistent to amuse us much longer. War talk is becoming vieux jeu.”
“Why read them?” inquired Neeland with a smile.
“Why?” She made a slight gesture. “One reads what is printed, I suppose.”
“Written and printed by people who know no more about the matter in question than you and I, mademoiselle,” he remarked, still smiling.