en francs, which gave him two stakes at roulette, and
sometimes enabled him to play for several hours before he was "cleaned
out." She had lost a good deal by this time; all her original winnings,
and had begun to fall back on her own capital, for her luck had never
returned for more than a few hours together. A hateful sense of failure
was upon her. She was feverishly anxious to get back her losses, not so
much for the money's sake as for the pleasure of "beating the bank," as
she had continually beaten it at first. Once, she had had the great
white, good-natured animal under her feet, and people had looked at her
with wondering admiration, as if she had been Una leading an obedient
lion. Now the admiring looks, tributes to her lovely face and pretty
clothes or jewels, were tempered with pity. The lion had Una in his
mouth. There seemed to be no question in the public mind as to how he
would eventually dispose of her. Mary felt the difference keenly. She
could hardly submit to it. She wanted desperately to do something which,
in every sense, would turn the tables. She risked huge sums in a wild
hope that her courage might conquer luck, that again she might know the
peculiar joy, the indescribable thrill of seeing the "bank" send for
more money. Yet deep down within her a voice said that the moment would
never come again; and she had no longer her old gay confidence in
placing her stakes.

The crowds had ceased to collect round her table, to watch the
"wonderful Miss Grant." It is the sensational wins, where piles of gold
and notes mount up, that people rush to gaze upon. They are not amused
by seeing money monotonously swept off the tables, even in immense sums.
It discourages and depresses them. Nobody likes to be discouraged and
depressed; therefore Mary had lost her audiences. Still she played on,
and listened to no advice.

This morning, however, when she woke to remember her promise to the
cure, she felt oddly disinclined to go to the Casino. Usually she
wakened, after dozing fitfully, dreaming over again last night's
worries, with an almost tremulous longing to be at the tables once more,
a longing that seemed even more physical than mental, an aching of the
nerves. Now the burning desire was suddenly assuaged, or forgotten in
the powerful sway of a new thought, as illness can be forgotten in
sudden fear or joy. The Casino appeared unimportant, trivial. All there
was of her was already on the mountain, in the li