“Nothing more than penny points in my house.  Put that money away, Wallie.  We will use counters.”

Garratt Skinner had a box of counters if he had no pack of cards.

“Penny points, a sixpenny ante and a shilling limit,” he said.  “Then no harm will be done to any one.  The black counters a shilling, the red sixpence, and the white ones a penny.  You have each a pound’s worth,” he said as he dealt them out.

Sylvia rose from her chair.

“I think I will go to bed.”

Wallie Hine turned round in his chair, holding his counters in his hand.  “Oh, don’t do that, Miss Sylvia.  Sit beside me, please, and bring me luck.”

“You forget, Wallie, that my daughter has just come from a long journey.  No doubt she is tired,” said Garratt Skinner, with a friendly reproach in his voice.  He got up and opened the door for his daughter.  After she had passed out he followed her.

“I shall take a hand for a little while, Sylvia, to see that they keep to the stakes.  I think young Hine wants looking after, don’t you?  He doesn’t know any geography.  Good-night, my dear.  Sleep well!”

He took her by the elbow and drew her toward him.  He stooped to her, meaning to kiss her.  Sylvia did not resist, but she drooped her head so that her forehead, not her lips, was presented to his embrace.  And the kiss was never given.  She remained standing, her face lowered from his, her attitude one of resignation and despondency.  She felt her father’s hand shake upon her arm, and looking up saw his eyes fixed upon her in pity.  He dropped her arm quickly, and said in a sharp voice: 

“There!  Go to bed, child!”

He watched her as she went up the stairs.  She went up slowly and without turning round, and she walked like one utterly tired out.  Garratt Skinner waited until he heard her door close.  “She should never have come,” he said.  “She should never have come.”  Then he went slowly back to his friends.

Sylvia went to bed, but she did not sleep.  The excitement which had buoyed her up had passed; and her hopes had passed with it.  She recalled the high anticipations with which she had set out from Chamonix only yesterday—­yes, only yesterday.  And against them in a vivid contrast she set the actual reality, the supper party, Red-hot Barstow, Archie Parminter, and the poor witless Wallie Hine, with his twang and his silly boasts.  She began to wonder whether there was any other world than that which she knew, any other people than those with whom she had lived.  Her father was different—­yes, but—­but—­Her father was too perplexing a problem to her at this moment.  Why had he so clearly pitied her just now in the passage?  Why had he checked himself from the kiss?  She was too tired to reason it out.  She was conscious that she was very wretched, and the tears gathered in her eyes; and in the darkness of her room she cried silently, pressing the sheet to her lips lest a sob should be heard.  Were all her dreams mere empty imaginings? she asked.  If so, why should they ever have come to her? she inquired piteously; why should she have found solace in them—­why should they have become her real life?  Did no one walk the earth of all that company which went with her in her fancies?