Going to what Mr. Tope called the “Suicide Table,” they pushed themselves into the triple row of standing spectators till they were behind the seat holders. These had a sphynx-like air of absorption. Piles of counters were methodically stacked before them, and their little note-books were scrupulously neat. Some were marking down dots and zig-zag lines, some columns of figures. They played occasionally and with deliberation. They were the regulars, the system workers, who sat every day in the same place at the same table.
While Mr. Tope was explaining the different methods of playing, Hugh felt a light touch on his arm. Looking round he saw a sweet if somewhat over-emphasized face smiling up at him. The girl wore a bonnet that seemed to be made of tiny lilac flowers, and her hands were daintily gloved. Hugh thought at first that she had mistaken him for somebody else.
“Listen, Monsieur. Lend me a louis. It will bring you luck.”
But Mr. Tope frowned. “Don’t do it. Pretend you have no money.”
Hugh awkwardly refused, and with a little grimace the girl went away.
“One of the parasites of the place,” said Mr. Tope. “The Casino’s full of them. She spotted you at once for a newcomer. She’s on the watch for greenhorns. Now she’ll tell her sisterhood that you turned her down, and you’ll be less pestered. Never speak to a woman you don’t know on the floor of the Casino. In the end it will cost you money.”
“I wonder the management doesn’t stop that sort of thing.”
“They encourage everything that speeds up the gambling. Morality doesn’t exist as far as they are concerned. All they want is to get your coin; and in the end they usually do.”
“Do they get yours?”
“Oh, yes, I lose sometimes. There’s a class of people who tell you they never lose. They’re known as the liars.”