They sat studying the people getting up from the tables and going through the door to waiting carriages and automobiles, the well-dressed women with assured airs serving Sam’s mind to make a contrast for the woman who sat with him.
“I presume you are right about women,” he said musingly, “it must be a stiff game for you if you like winning on your own hook.”
“Winning! We don’t win.” The lips of the actress drew back showing her white teeth. “No woman ever won who tried to play a straight fighting game for herself.”
Her voice grew tense and the lines upon her forehead reappeared.
“Woman can’t stand alone,” she went on, “she is a sentimental fool. She reaches out her hand to some man and that in the end beats her. Why, even when she plays the game as I played it against the colonel some rat of a man like Frank Robson, for whom she has given up everything worth while to a woman, sells her out.”
Sam looked at her hand, covered with rings, lying on the table.
“Let’s not misunderstand each other,” he said quietly, “do not blame Frank for this. I never knew him. I just imagined him.”
A puzzled look came into the woman’s eyes and a flush rose in her cheeks.
“You grafter!” she sneered.
Sam called to a passing waiter and ordered a fresh bottle of wine.