“That sounds like an allopathic sermon of some sort,” said Pierce, “but I can’t see just how it applies to me.  However, I’ll think it over.  You’re a brick, Miss Kirby, and I’m sorry if you had an unpleasant moment.”  He took Rouletta’s hand and held it while he stared at her with a frank, contemplative gaze.  “You’re an unusual person, and you’re about the nicest girl I’ve met.  I want you to like me.”

As he walked back down-town Pierce pondered Rouletta’s words, “a square deal all around, even to yourself.”  They were a trifle puzzling.  Whom had he cheated?  Surely not Laure.  From the very first he had protested his lack of serious interest in her, and their subsequent relations were entirely the result of her unceasing efforts to appropriate him to herself.  He had resisted, she had persisted.  Nor could he see that he had cheated—­in other words, injured—­himself.  This was a liberal country; its code was free and it took little account of a man’s private conduct.  Nobody seriously blamed him for his affair with Laure; he had lost no standing by reason of it.  It was only a part of the big adventure, a passing phase of his development, an experience such as came to every man.  Since it had left no mark upon him, and had not seriously affected Laure, the score was even.  He dismissed Rouletta’s words as of little consequence.  In order, however, to prevent any further unpleasant scenes he determined to put Laure in her place, once for all.

Rouletta went to her room, vaguely disturbed at her own emotions.  She could still feel the touch of Phillips’ hand, she could still feel his gaze fixed earnestly, meditatively, upon hers, and she was amazed to discover the importance he had assumed in her thoughts.  Importance, that was the word.  He was a very real, a very interesting, person, and there was some inexplicable attraction about him that offset his faults and his failings, however grave.  For one thing, he was not an automaton, like the other men; he was a living, breathing problem, and he absorbed Rouletta’s attention.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at the wall, when the Countess Courteau knocked at her door and entered.  The women had become good friends; frequently the elder one stopped to gossip.  The Countess flung herself into a chair, rolled and lit a cigarette, then said: 

“Well, I see you and Agnes saved the bankroll again.”

Rouletta nodded.  “Agnes is an awful bluff.  I never load her.  But of course nobody knows that.”

“You’re a queer youngster.  I’ve never known a girl quite like you.  Everybody is talking about you.”

“Indeed?  Not the nice people?”

“Nice people?” The Countess lifted her brows.  “You mean those at the Barracks and up on the hill?  Yes, they’re talking about you, too.”

“I can imagine what they say.”  Rouletta drew her brows together in a frown.  “No doubt they think I’m just like the dance-hall girls.  I’ve seen a few of them—­at a distance.  They avoid me as if I had measles.”