“That’s precisely what I do.  If there were a better hotel than the Courteau House I’d stop there.  But there isn’t.  Now, then, suppose you tell me what really ails you.”

Laure’s dusky eyes were blazing, her voice was hoarse when she answered: 

“All right.  I’ll tell you.  I want you to mind your own business.  Yes, and I’m going to see that you do.  You can’t go home alone, can you?  Afraid of the dark, I suppose, or afraid some man will speak to you.  My goodness!  The airs you put on—­you!  Sam Kirby’s girl, the daughter of a gambler, a—­”

“Leave my father out of this!” There was something of Sam Kirby’s force in this sharp command, something of his cold, forbidding anger in his daughter’s face.  “He’s my religion, so you’d better lay off of him.  Speak out.  Where did I tread on your toes?”

“Well, you tread on them every time you stop at the gold-scales, if you want to know.  I have a religion, too, and it’s locked up in the cashier’s cage.”

There was a pause; the girls appraised each other with mutual dislike.

“You mean Mr. Phillips?” “I do.  See that you call him ‘Mister,’ and learn to walk home alone.”

“Don’t order me.  I can’t take orders.”

Laure was beside herself at this defiance.  She grew blind with rage, so much so that she did not notice Phillips himself; he had approached within hearing distance.  “You’ve got the boss; he’s crazy about you, but Pierce is mine—­”

“What’s that?” It was Phillips who spoke.  “What are you saying about me?” Both girls started.  Laure turned upon him furiously.

“I’m serving notice on this faro-dealer, that’s all.  But it goes for you, too—­”

Phillips’ eyes opened, his face whitened with an emotion neither girl had before seen.  To Rouletta he said, quietly: 

“The other boys are busy, so I came to take you home.”

Laure cried, wildly, hysterically:  “Don’t do it!  I warn you!”

“Are you ready to go?”

“All ready,” Rouletta agreed.  Together they left the theater.

Nothing was said as the two trod the snow-banked streets; not until they halted at the door of the Courteau House did Rouletta speak; then she said: 

“I wouldn’t have let you do this, only—­I have! a temper.”

“So have I,” Pierce said, shortly.  “It’s humiliating to own up.”

“I was wrong.  I have no right to hurt that girl’s feelings.”

“Right?” He laughed angrily.  “She had no right to make a scene.”

“Why not?  She’s fighting for her own, isn’t she?  She’s honest about it, at least.”  Noting Pierce’s expression of surprise, Rouletta went on:  “You expect me to be shocked, but I’m not, for I’ve known the truth in a general way.  You think I’m going to preach.  Well, I’m not going to do that, either.  I’ve lived a queer life; I’ve seen women like Laure—­in fact, I was raised among them—­and nothing they do surprises me very much.  But I’ve learned a good many lessons around saloons and gambling-places.  One is this:  never cheat.  Father taught me that.  He gave everybody a square deal, including himself.  It’s a good thing to think about—­ a square deal all around, even to yourself.”