"Aren't you excited?" whispered Myra to me.

"Frightfully," I said, and left my mouth well open. I don't quite know
what picture of the event Myra and I had conjured up in our minds, but I
fancy it was one something like this. At the entrance into the rooms of
such a large and obviously distinguished party there would be a slight
sensation among the crowd, and way would be made for us at the most
important table. It would then leak out that Chevalier Simpson--the tall
poetical-looking gentleman in the middle, my dear--had brought with him
no less a sum than thirty francs with which to break the bank, and that
he proposed to do this in one daring _coup_. At this news the players at
the other tables would hastily leave their winnings (or losings) and
crowd round us. Chevalier Simpson, pale but controlled, would then place
his money on seventeen--"_dix-sept_," he would say to the croupier to
make it quite clear--and the ball would be spun. As it slowed down, the
tension in the crowd would increase. "_Mon Dieu_!" a woman would cry in a
shrill voice; there would be guttural exclamations from Germans; at the
edge of the crowd strong men would swoon. At last a sudden shriek ... and
the croupier's voice, trembling for the first time for thirty years,
"_Dix-sept_!" Then gold and notes would be pushed at the Chevalier. He
would stuff his pockets with them; he would fill his hat with them; we
others, we would stuff our pockets too. The bank would send out for more
money. There would be loud cheers from all the company (with the
exception of one man, who had put five francs on sixteen and had shot
himself) and we should be carried--that is to say, we four men--shoulder
high to the door, while by the deserted table Myra and Dahlia clung to
each other, weeping tears of happiness....

Something like that.