"
"Mr. Berkley--I can't take--accept----"
"Oh, listen to her!" he said, disgusted. "Can't I make a bet with
my own money if I want to? I _am_ betting; and _you_ are holding
the stakes. It depends on how you use them whether I win or lose."
"I don't understand--I don't, truly," she stammered; "d-do you wish
me to--leave--the Canterbury? Do you--_what_ is it you wish?"
"You know better than I do. I'm not advising you. Where is your
home? Why don't you go there? You have one somewhere, I suppose,
haven't you?"
"Y-yes; I had."
"Well--where is it?"
"In Philadelphia."
"Couldn't you stand it?" he inquired with a sneer.
"No." She covered her face with her hands.
"Trouble?"
"Y-yes."
"Man?"
"Y-y-yes."
"Won't they take you back?"
"I--haven't written."
"Write. Home is no stupider than the Canterbury. Will you write?"
She nodded, hiding her face.
"Then--_that's_ settled. Meanwhile--" he took both her wrists and
drew away her clinging hands:
"I'd rather like to win this bet because--the odds are all against
me." He smiled, letting her hands swing back and hang inert at her
sides.
But she only closed her eyes and shook her head, standing there,
slim and tear-stained in her ruffled, wine-stained dinner dress.
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