The Comte de Virieu did not gaze at the young English woman with the
bold, impersonal stare to which she had become accustomed--his glance was
far more thoughtful, questioning, and in a sense kindly. But his eyes
seemed to pierce her through and through, and suddenly her heart began
to beat very fast. Yet no colour came into her face--indeed, Sylvia grew
pale.

She looked down at the table, but even so she remained conscious of that
piercing gaze turned on her, and with some surprise she found herself
keenly visualising the young man's face.

Alone among all the people in the room, the Comte de Virieu looked as if
he lived a more or less outdoor life; his face was tanned, his blue eyes
were very bright, and the hands dealing out the cards were well-shaped
and muscular. Somehow he looked very different, she could hardly explain
how or why, from the men round him.

At last she moved round, so as to avoid being opposite to him.

Yes, she felt more comfortable now, and slowly, almost insensibly, the
glamour of play began to steal over Sylvia Bailey's senses. She began to
understand the at once very simple and, to the uninitiated, intricate
game of Baccarat--to long, as Anna Wolsky longed, for the fateful nine,
eight, five, and four to be turned up.

She had fifty francs in her purse, and she ached to risk a gold piece.

"Do you think I might put down ten francs?" she whispered to Anna.