“Will he?” said Frances Thorold sardonically.

“If he hasn’t the decency to do that—” said Montague.

She turned upon him in a flash and he saw that her bosom was heaving.

“Do you think I would take his charity?” she said. “Or anyone else’s? I’d rather—far rather—starve—as I have before!”

“Good God!” said Montague.

He met the fierce fire of her eyes with a swift kindling of admiration in his own. Somehow in that moment she was magnificent. She was like a statue of Victory in the midst of defeat. Then he saw the fire die down, and marked it with regret.

“Good night,” she said abruptly. “I am going in.”

He thrust out his hand to her with a quickness of impulse he did not stop to question. “Please wait a minute!” he said. “Surely you are not afraid of my offering you charity?”

He smiled as he said it—the smile of confident friendship. There were moments when Montague Rotherby, with the true gambler’s spirit, staked all upon one cast. And this was one of them. But—possessing also a considerable knowledge of human nature—he had small fear for the result. He knew before he put down his stake that he was dealing with a woman of too generous a temperament to make him suffer complete failure. Also, he was too old and too cynical a player to care greatly whether he won or lost. He was beginning to admit that she attracted him. But after all, what of it? It was only boredom that lent romance to this moonlight scene. In three days—in less—he could banish it from his mind. There were other scenes awaiting his careless coming, other players also . . . higher stakes. . . .

The thought was still running in his mind even as he felt the quick grip of her slender hand in his. He had not expected complete victory. It took him by surprise.

“You are far too good,” she said, and he heard the quiver of emotion that she no longer sought to suppress in her voice, “too understanding, to offer me that.”

He squeezed her hand in answer. “I’m offering you friendship,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said gently.

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