“I don’t believe I care much about bein’ anybody’s mascot to-night,” she answered.  There was a hint of anger in her tired monotone.

“What?” He turned from the table and walked over to the fireplace.  “I reckon I didn’t understand you,” he said quietly, almost gently.  “You better come, hadn’t you?”

She met his inscrutable little eyes steadily.  A faint redness slowly revealed itself on her powdered cheeks; then she followed him back to the table and took the place he had assigned to her at Mellin’s elbow.

“I’ll bank,” said Pedlow, taking a chair between Cooley and the Italian, “unless somebody wants to take it off my hands.  Now, what are we playing?”

“Pokah,” responded Sneyd with mild sarcasm.

“Bravo!” cried Mellin.  “That’s my game.  Ber-ravo!”

This was so far true:  it was the only game upon which he had ever ventured money; he had played several times when the wagers were allowed to reach a limit of twenty-five cents.

“You know what I mean, I reckon,” said Pedlow.  “I mean what we are playin’ fer?”

“Twenty-five franc limit,” responded Cooley authoritatively.  “Double for jacks.  Play two hours and settle when we quit.”

Mellin leaned back in his chair.  “You call that high?” he asked, with a sniff of contempt.  “Why not double it?”

The fat man hammered the table with his fist delightedly. “‘He’s game,’ she says.  ‘He’s the gamest little Indian ever come down the big road!’ she says.  Was she right?  What?  Maybe she wasn’t!  We’ll double it before very long, my boy; this’ll do to start on.  There.”  He distributed some of the small towers of ivory counters and made a memorandum in a notebook.  “There’s four hundred apiece.”

“That all?” inquired Mellin, whereupon Mr. Pedlow uproariously repeated Madame de Vaurigard’s alleged tribute.

As the game began, the intelligent-looking maid appeared from the dining-room, bearing bottles of whisky and soda, and these she deposited upon small tables at the convenience of the players, so that at the conclusion of the first encounter in the gentle tournament there was material for a toast to the gallant who had won it.

“Here’s to the gamest Indian of us all,” proposed the fat man.  “Did you notice him call me with a pair of tens?  And me queen-high!”

Mellin drained a deep glass in honor of himself.  “On my soul, Chan’ Pedlow, I think you’re the bes’ fellow in the whole world,” he said gratefully.  “Only trouble with you—­you don’t want to play high enough.”

He won again and again, adding other towers of counters to his original allotment, so that he had the semblance of a tiny castle.  When the cards had been dealt for the fifth time he felt the light contact of a slipper touching his foot under the table.

That slipper, he decided (from the nature of things) could belong to none other than his Helene, and even as he came to this conclusion the slight pressure against his foot was gently but distinctly increased thrice.  He pressed the slipper in return with his shoe, at the same time giving Madame de Vaurigard a look of grateful surprise and tenderness, which threw her into a confusion so evidently genuine that for an unworthy moment he had a jealous suspicion she had meant the little caress for some other.