A sport, doctor, a sport.
Won't let old friends go bankrupt--no--certainly not."
They laughed at him. It seemed unlikely that he himself knew what he
was talking about. But he shook his head and remained sunk in solemn
meditation, twirling the stem of his glass between thick, unsteady
fingers. The girl next him nudged him disgustedly.
"Oh, wake up! You'll be crying in a minute. Talk of something else."
"Tell us the story of the Duke and the Black Opal, Gyp."
She waved them off.
"No--no--that is not discreet. One must not tell tales. That might
frighten someone 'ere who loves me."
And she looked at Stonehouse, a little malicious and insolently,
childishly sure. He leant towards her, speaking in an undertone,
trying to stare her down.
"Do you mean me, Mademoiselle?"
"And why not, _Monsieur le docteur_? Would it be so strange? You say
you love nobody. But it seems you love ze poor fat Moretti--terribly,
terribly, no doubt, so that you almost break your small 'eart for 'er.
And per'aps someone else too. You say you don't drink--but you are
just a leetle drunk already. You are not different from ze rest. I
tell you that before--and I know. I am a connoisseur. It is
written--'ere in the eyes and in the mouth. It is dangerous, the way
you live. _Quant a moi_--I don't want you, my friend--we two--that
would be an eruption--a disaster--I should be afraid."
She pretended to shudder, and a moment later seemed to forget him
altogether.
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