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She was losing, and boldly played on with an apparent composure belied by her flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. I saw her again at ten o'clock in the evening. She was playing at another table, having probably tried to retrieve her luck at each in succession. The bank notes were gone, and she had put away her purse, for it was easy to hold in her prettily-gloved hand her remaining store of gold.
She smiled, and held out her prettily-gloved hand. "Yes, I'm off," she answered archly. "Florence, or Rome, or somewhere. I've drained Nice dry like a sucked orange. Got all the fun I can out of it. Now I'm away again to my beloved Italy." But it struck me as odd that, if Italy was her game, she went by the omnibus which takes down to the train de luxe for Paris.
In another compartment, Jules and Marie Victor sagely exchanged their lightning glances of Parisian acuteness. "C'est un homme magnifique!" murmured Marie, and Jules gravely nodded, "Peut-etre, notre maitresse l'a connu longtemps. II est tres tendre!" The staff-officer "furthered the Viceroy's business" by clasping both of Alixe Delavigne's prettily-gloved hands.
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