"Penny points, a sixpenny ante and a shilling limit," he said. "Then no
harm will be done to any one. The black counters a shilling, the red
sixpence, and the white ones a penny. You have each a pound's worth," he
said as he dealt them out.

Sylvia rose from her chair.

"I think I will go to bed."

Wallie Hine turned round in his chair, holding his counters in his
hand. "Oh, don't do that, Miss Sylvia. Sit beside me, please, and
bring me luck."

"You forget, Wallie, that my daughter has just come from a long journey.
No doubt she is tired," said Garratt Skinner, with a friendly reproach in
his voice. He got up and opened the door for his daughter. After she had
passed out he followed her.

"I shall take a hand for a little while, Sylvia, to see that they keep to
the stakes. I think young Hine wants looking after, don't you? He doesn't
know any geography. Good-night, my dear. Sleep well!"

He took her by the elbow and drew her toward him. He stooped to her,
meaning to kiss her. Sylvia did not resist, but she drooped her head so
that her forehead, not her lips, was presented to his embrace. And the
kiss was never given. She remained standing, her face lowered from his,
her attitude one of resignation and despondency. She felt her father's
hand shake upon her arm, and looking up saw his eyes fixed upon her in
pity. He dropped her arm quickly, and said in a sharp voice:

"There! Go to bed, child!"

He watched her as she went up the stairs. She went up slowly and without
turning round, and she walked like one utterly tired out. Garratt
Skinner waited until he heard her door close. "She should never have
come," he said. "She should never have come." Then he went slowly back
to his friends.

Sylvia went to bed, but she did not sleep. The excitement which had
buoyed her up had passed; and her hopes had passed with it. She recalled
the high anticipations with which she had set out from Chamonix only
yesterday--yes, only yesterday. And against them in a vivid contrast she
set the actual reality, the supper party, Red-hot Barstow, Archie
Parminter, and the poor witless Wallie Hine, with his twang and his silly
boasts. She began to wonder whether there was any other world than that
which she knew, any other people than those with whom she had lived. Her
father was different--yes, but--but--Her father was too perplexing a
problem to her at this moment. Why had he so clearly pitied her just now
in the passage? Why had h